Beyond Revenge
by EKWTSM9
Summary: "Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged." - Samuel Johnson
1. Chapter 1

He was out of breath as he threw open the Homicide office door and stormed into the familiar cavernous room; it was packed with SFPD personnel, some in uniform, most not. He had been gone almost three years now, and there were a lot of new faces. He looked for one he knew.

Eventually he spotted the easily recognized balding head of a colleague who had long ago transferred to Robbery and was now manning a desk, easing the slide into retirement. Picking his way across the room through the noisy throng, ignoring the glances snapping his way, some in surprise, others in bewilderment, he got close enough to reach out and lay a hand on the older man's arm. "Norm," he said quietly but firmly and the pot-bellied sergeant turned an angry frown in his direction.

Bushy eyebrows rose quickly in surprise. "Steve!" The gravelly voice hadn't changed. "What the hell – We've been trying to get in touch with you since last night -!"

"I know, I know," Steve Keller held up a stalling hand, shaking his head. "I was out of town at a conference, got home in the middle of the night. I didn't check my messages till this morning." His worried green eyes snapped towards the inner office where the glass-paneled door was closed on a room that seemed full to overflowing. He looked back at Haseejian. "Is it true?"

The Armenian detective met his eyes evenly then nodded slowly. "Yeah, I'm afraid so." He swallowed heavily, glancing away briefly. "It's true."

Steve let out a sharp breath and looked down, his hands on his hips. He glanced towards the inner office again. "What's going on in there?"

"Dan's talking to the Chief and the rest of the brass." He glanced at his watch. "They'll be breaking it up soon, I'd think. Everyone's heading over to the, ah… you know…"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. Do you think they'll let me see him?"

Haseejian shrugged and bobbled his head. "I have no idea. Listen, ah, do you want to go over with Healey and me… he's here somewhere…" He raised himself on his tiptoes to look around the room, attempting to locate his former partner.

"I have my car…"

"Leave it here. Parking will be at a premium over there, I'm guessing."

"You're probably right." Steve ran both hands over his face then stared at his former colleague. "What happened?"

Haseejian shook his head slowly. "We're not sure. It happened late last night and nobody's talking and nobody seems to know anything yet. I know the Homicide guys are on it, but if they know anything, they're keeping it close to the vest."

Steve shot another look towards the inner office. "Listen, ah, do you know if Dan called Jeannie?"

The sergeant's eyes shot wide. "Jeez, I have no idea. Listen, ah, I haven't been able to talk to Dan, you know…" He shrugged apologetically.

Steve patted his former colleague's arm. "It's okay, Norm, don't worry about it." He closed his eyes and inhaled loudly. "I can't believe this is happening," he said quietly as he opened his eyes, the words coming out with his breath.

Haseejian smiled mirthlessly. "None of us can. It just doesn't seem possible."

The volume of voices in the room dropped noticeably and both men turned to face the inner office as the door opened. Steve recognized the Chief as he led the way out of the room and headed towards the main office door, the others in a tight group behind him. Dan Robbins was at the centre of the scrum of older men, most of whom Steve knew, one of them with his arm around the young inspector's shoulders as they crossed the room and disappeared out into the corridor.

"That's our cue," Haseejian said grimly as he glanced at Steve and started to follow the others towards the door. He put a hand gently on Steve's back, ushering him ahead, glancing around the room trying to find Dan Healey.

They were close to the door when Healey approached from behind, grabbing Steve by the shoulder to pull him to a quick stop. The younger man turned, surprised, then quickly enveloped his former colleague in a brief but grim hug. "How ya doin'?" the older man asked quietly.

Steve shook his head sharply. "Just, ah… I don't know…"

"Yeah, me too." He patted Steve's back, sharing a bleak look with Haseejian as they made their way out of the Homicide bureau and into the busy, noisy corridor.

# # # # #

Haseejian exhaled loudly as he looked down at his wristwatch. 9:58. His gaze slid slowly to the younger man sitting to his right; Steve's eyes were riveted on the dark brown wooden door midway along the left wall.

They were sitting in the back row against the wall, getting the last seats in the small, and now very crowded, arraignment courtroom. Flanked by the Chief of Detectives and several other members of the top brass, Dan Robbins was in the front row behind the defendant's table. They had been unable to get near the young inspector.

A door at the back of the room opened and the bailiff directed everyone to stand as the Judge entered the chambers and took his seat behind the bench. He nodded at the bailiff, who approached the door on the left wall and opened it. Everyone sat.

As the court clerk began to read from the document on the top of his clipboard, audible gasps could be heard throughout the packed room.

Tieless, in a blue-and-white striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a light blue knit vest, his hands cuffed in front of him, Mike Stone was escorted into the courtroom and towards the defendant's table.

"Docket number CR18853…"

Mike's lawyer, who had remained standing, nodded grimly as he approached, pulling the chair away from the table so his client could stand as the charges were read.

"The State of California vs. Michael George Stone. The defendant is charged with murder in the second degree." The clerk handed the clipboard to the judge, who had stared almost sympathetically at Mike since he'd entered the room.

The jurist glanced at the paper on the clipboard then back up. "Lieutenant," he said quietly in acknowledgement of the man standing in front of him. A few gasps could be heard around the courtroom. The judge nodded towards the bailiff. "Charlie, take the handcuffs off. He doesn't need them."

With a confirming nod, the bailiff crossed to where Mike was standing rigidly, staring expressionlessly at the bench, and swiftly and professionally removed the handcuffs. The detective dropped his hands to his sides, resisting the urge to rub his wrists.

The judge looked back down at the clipboard. "Michael Stone, you have been charged with the murder of a, ah, Leonard Collier Cord. How do you plead?"

Mike raised his head slightly, allowing his gaze to focus, and his blue eyes bored into the judge unflinchingly. "Guilty, Your Honor."

Gasps, this time louder and unrestrained, filled the courtroom.

And the bottom of Steve's world fell away.


	2. Chapter 2

Without taking his eyes from the defendant, the judge picked up the gavel and rapped it once on the block; the room quieted immediately. "ADA O'Brien."

In the now silent courtroom, chair legs scraped against the tiled floor as the prosecutor pushed himself almost reluctantly to his feet. He glanced sideways at the defendant before quietly clearing his throat. "The, ah…. ah, we have nothing to add at the moment, Your Honor, but we reserve the right to amend the charges at a later date."

"Of course," the judge said quietly, still staring at the defendant as if unable to believe his eyes. In the gallery, confused and worried glances were exchanged; any amendment to the charges could only mean one thing, most of them were thinking – murder in the second upgraded to murder in the first.

The judge glanced at the prosecutor, briefly taking his eyes from the grimly stoic police lieutenant standing behind the dark brown wooden table; then, not even trying to mask a heavy, defeated sigh, he seemed to shake himself back to the present. "All right, ah, due to the seriousness of the charges, the defendant will be held without bail until sentencing. The court will advise counsel when that will be." He picked up the gavel again, dropping the hammer end almost disconsolately on the block. "We're done here. Next case," he said flatly, his unfocused gaze shifting slightly towards the clerk, who stepped to the bench and retrieved the clipboard.

The bailiff and the court officer who had escorted Mike into the room approached him once more, the bailiff slipping the handcuffs off his belt. Mike met his eyes and the bailiff smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant… I don't have a choice…"

Mike's lips curled in a sympathetic smile. "It's okay, Charlie, I understand." He held he hands out and the bailiff gently slipped the cuffs around his wrists. The metallic click of the ratchet teeth snapping into place was the only sound in the now silent room as it seemed every breath was held.

As Mike was led towards the far door, O'Brien approached his lawyer. "Listen, ah, Jack," he began quietly, "we need to get together, okay?" He glanced at Mike's retreating back. "We need to talk."

PBA attorney Jack Fowler leaned closer to the prosecutor. "Sure, ah, just let me get him back to Holding." He glanced at his watch. "Meet you in your office in, say, a half hour?"

O'Brien nodded. "Yeah, that'll be great."

Both lawyers turned to watch the now disgraced Homicide lieutenant as he slowly crossed the room between the two court officers. As he approached the open door leading to the interior corridor, Mike looked over his shoulder and his eyes fell on those of his partner sitting beside the Chief of Detectives in the front row.

Dan Robbins opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. As he disappeared through the door, Mike smiled encouragingly and winked. With a heartbroken sigh, Dan slumped back in the chair and let his head drop.

His life had just come apart.

# # # # #

Haseejian and Healey stood as did most of the rest of the gallery in the small courtroom. Though no one was speaking, the shuffling of feet and the creaking of the wooden bench seats was almost deafening and the judge's head snapped up quickly and angrily. He grabbed the gavel again and raised it in a tight fist, then stopped; he knew why everyone was there and why they were now leaving.

Glancing at the court clerk, he smiled grimly with a rueful shake of his head. "Let's give 'em a minute or two to clear out, then we can have the place to ourselves again," he said quietly and the clerk nodded, returning the bleak but knowing smile. "The day can only get better, right?"

The clerk chuckled mirthlessly. "I sure hope so, Your Honor."

Haseejian looked down at Steve, who hadn't moved. He touched the younger man's shoulder and the ex-cop looked up. "I think Judge Baker would appreciate it if we all cleared his courtroom as soon as possible." He nodded towards the bench, where the jurist was now leaning back in the large leather chair, his hands steepled in front of his face, his dark eyes staring at nothing, it seemed.

Nodding vaguely, Steve started slowly to his feet. "Yeah…" He followed his two former colleagues out into the crowded corridor. He looked around. "I want to talk to Dan. Do you guys see him?"

Haseejian and Healey scanned the large hallway but both shook their heads. "He must have headed back to Bryant with the Chief," Healey said. "You want to come back there with us?"

"It's where my car is," Steve said simply, but both detectives knew Steve wasn't just going to get into his Porsche and drive away.

All three turned towards the elevators, but the waiting crowd was large and Steve was impatient. "Let's take the stairs," he said, starting down the corridor in that direction, knowing the aging and somewhat overweight police officers behind him were exchanging frustrated and unhappy sighs.

# # # # #

Steve had been sitting silently in the backseat of the black LTD, staring out the window. "Do you guys really think he did it?" he asked finally.

The two detectives in front of him exchanged a quick glance. "Well, until last night, I wouldn't have thought so but…" Haseejain said reluctantly.

Healey glanced in the rearview mirror as he turned the large sedan onto Bryant. "If he didn't, he just perjured himself."

"Yeah," Steve said softly.

"You know, I never would've thought he had it in him, but then I remember back to that day in his office, when he went after Cord and we had to pull him off. I think he could've killed him that day if we'd've let him."

"Yeah," Steve repeated, his voice a whisper as he recalled, only too well, his partner's violent reaction to the realization that Cord had been following his beloved daughter, getting close enough to take photos and then brag about it. It had been the first, and only, time he had seen Mike so out of control, and it had frightened him to his very core.

If Cord had reappeared, for some unfathomable reason, his former partner's reaction could very well have been the same; especially if, real or imagined, the convicted murderer had put the lieutenant's daughter in his sights once again.

"Damn it," Steve snorted, leaning forward. "All I have are questions. I mean, for god's sake, why wasn't Cord in Quentin? He was serving 25 to life, wasn't he? How did he and Mike meet up? Where did this happen? How did he kill him?"

"Look, like we told you, from what we heard Cord was beaten to death, in some empty warehouse on the Embarcadero. That's it, Steve, that's all we've heard, I swear," Healey said as he pulled the LTD into a space in the outside parking lot at 850 Bryant. He turned in the seat, as did Haseejian.

"Bill Tanner's heading up the investigation, so let's go and track him down, see what he knows, okay?" the Armenian Robbery detective asked.

Steve looked at them both, his face a mask of worry and bafflement, then the back door flew open and he was out and heading towards the imposing grey building before the two SFPD officers could react.

"He still moves fast, doesn't he?" Haseejian growled with a begrudgingly impressed chuckle as they exited the sedan and hustled as fast as they could across the asphalt to the already closing side door.

They caught up with the agitated cop-turned-professor at the bank of elevators in the lobby; he had his index finger pressed against the UP button and wasn't letting it go.

"I don't think that helps it come any faster," Healey said softly with a small laugh, which quickly disappeared when a chime was heard and the elevators doors to his right opened. Steve gave him a quick mirthless smile as he pushed past the people trying to exit to stand at the back of the dark-walled car.

Chuckling, looking down, Haseejian stepped in behind the frowning Healey and pushed the button to the fourth floor. "Just be happy he didn't decide to take the stairs," he said under his breath to his former partner. "He'd kill us both."

# # # # #

Homicide was almost empty. The Duty Sergeant was an older man Steve didn't recognize; he knew Art Sekulovich had retired a year ago and had not yet met his replacement. Two junior inspectors were manning phones in the otherwise empty office.

Steve stood in the centre of the bullpen and stared at the windowed door of the inner office, at the letters painted on the glass, at the desk and chairs, the filing cabinet, the scales of justice, the view…

How many times had he passed through that door into that room? How many times had he sat in the chair opposite that desk? How many times had he and the man to whom that office belonged shared stories and hopes, swapped theories and ideas, worked out problems both professional and personal? And how many times had they laughed?

He had worried it had all ended when he left the force, with vague promises to keep in touch, to go to dinners and ballgames together. The bond they had forged was a strong one, but he had been concerned that their new lives apart would make it too difficult to maintain.

Thankfully, he'd been wrong. Mike had seen to that, with his regular phone calls and promises of dinner that proved more than just lip service. The older man's schedule had been and still was the more chaotic, so Steve had left the initiation of contact up to the still active detective, and Mike never let him down.

And now, he had to admit, they were almost closer than they had been as partners. It was a relationship that he had come to cherish over the years.

Inhaling deeply, Steve closed his eyes. Was it possible that from this moment on it was a thing of the past?

# # # # #

Mike Stone heard the holding cell door close behind him as he slowly sat on the grey blanket-covered bunk. Because of who he was, it had been agreed by all in authority that he be kept in a cell alone until the sentencing hearing.

The weariness, both physical and mental, washed over him and he closed his eyes, trying to slow the pounding of his heart and the cacophony of thoughts that kept swirling through his mind.

A couple of long minutes later he opened his eyes and looked down at the palm of his right hand. Slowly he turned his hand over, staring at the cuts and bruises on the knuckles. With his left thumb and index finger, he gently pinched the knuckle of the middle finger of his right hand. He jumped and managed to swallow the gasp of pain.

He took a deep breath, letting it out in a rush; he may have broken the knuckle. He would have to ask Jack Fowler about seeing a doctor.

Cradling his injured hand in the other, he sat back against the wall and closed his eyes.

What in the world was he going to say to Steve and Jeannie?


	3. Chapter 3

**Beyond Revenge – Chapter Three**

Healey and Haseejian walked into Homicide and stopped just inside the door, looking around the almost empty room. Haseejian patted his former partner on the arm, nodding towards the inner office. They could see the back of Steve's head; he was sitting in the guest chair facing the desk.

As quietly as was possible for men of their age and build, they tiptoed over the tiled floor to the open door and peered in. Steve was leaning back in the chair, his eyes closed, his hands, fingers laced, over his stomach. Sensing their presence, he slowly opened his eyes and looked in their direction.

"Channeling or reminiscing?" Healey asked with a whimsically gentle smile.

Steve snorted a soft laugh and sat a little straighter. "A little of both, I guess."

They shared a silent moment then Haseejian offered quietly, "We tracked Bill down… well, we know where he is. Unfortunately, he won't be available to talk to us for a few hours."

Steve nodded. "Yeah, I kinda figured that."

Healey glanced at his former partner and cleared his throat. "And we found out where Dan is too… He's picking up Jeannie Stone at the airport. Seems he called her first thing this morning and her plane arrived about a half hour ago, supposedly."

Steve sat to attention. "Do you know where he's taking her?"

Healey shook his head. "No, but we both figured he'd probably bring her back here and take her upstairs to see Mike."

Steve looked at him skeptically. "That depends who's on the desk, doesn't it? They never used to let anybody in a holding cell have a visitor."

"Believe it or not, they've let things loosen up a bit in the past year or so. Besides," Healey said with a smirk at the detective beside him, "Norm and I here have a little pull, you know."

Haseejian's chuckle was low and contagious; even Steve couldn't resist smiling. "So, ah, you want to head up there with us?"

"Aren't either of you on duty today?"

Haseejian glanced at Healey then turned back to Steve. "I don't know about him, but I called in sick this morning." He pretended to cough. "I think I'm coming down with something…"

"Yeah," Healey said, raising a fist to cover his mouth and faking a cough as well, "I told my captain to expect an outbreak of blue flu in the next couple of days." His eyebrows shot up. "For some reason, he didn't seem surprised," he finished dryly.

Chuckling quietly, Steve got to his feet. "Let's just hope The City doesn't experience a crime wave in the next few hours."

"It wouldn't dare," Haseejian added drolly as he pushed himself away from the doorframe, allowing Steve to pass by into the bullpen. The three former Homicide detectives crossed the floor and left the large office without a backward glance.

# # # # #

Steve opened the door into a small room with a high counter separating several battered wooden chairs lined up against the wall from a tiny office with a desk, a chair and a noisy table fan. A large, soft-featured uniformed sergeant glanced up as he entered, Healey and Haseejian on his heels, and started to hoist himself up.

"Steve!" came the surprised voice from his left and he turned to see Dan Robbins scrambling to his feet. The younger man looked shell-shocked as he managed to find a weak smile, crossing the short distance to where Steve stood, his arms elevating slightly as if to hug the slightly older man.

Steve smiled sadly back and pulled the dark-haired Homicide inspector into a quick embrace. "Listen, ah," he said, releasing Dan and taking a step back, "thanks for the message. Sorry I didn't get back to you, I was out of town till the middle of the night –"

Dan raised his hands and shook his head. "It's okay, I understand. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

Steve nodded, smiling grimly. He gestured with his chin over Dan's shoulder towards the door at the far side of the room. "They let Jeannie in to see him?"

Dan involuntarily glanced that way as well. "Yeah. We just got here."

"Have, ah, have you had a chance to talk to him since, ah, since he was arrested?"

Dan shook his head and dropped his eyes. "No. I, ah, I got a call from Roy about two o'clock… Mike was already in custody. Things, ah, things moved really fast and he was in with his lawyer and they wouldn't let me… you know…"

"Yeah," Steve said softly, squeezing the younger man's arm in support. He gestured towards the chairs and they sat, Dan nodding his delayed greeting to Healey and Haseejian as the four men settled into the wooden chairs.

"Look, ah," Steve continued, leaning forward, his eyes boring into Dan's, "the only thing we've heard," he included his former colleagues with a nod, "is Cord was beaten to death in an abandoned warehouse on the Embarcadero."

Dan nodded. "Yeah, Pier 5. From what I was told, Mike was waiting there when the first cruiser showed up and just turned himself in." He paused and shook his head, as if not believing the words that had just left his mouth. "Bill Tanner's the lead but I haven't been able to talk to him yet either. I don't know if he has all that much to do… I mean, ah, Mike confessed, it seems pretty cut and dried, I guess."

A brief silence enveloped the somber group. "Did, ah, did you hear if Mike gave a reason…? I mean, we all know the history he has with Cord, but…" Healey let the question hang.

Dan slowly shook his head. "Not that anyone's told me. What do you mean about Mike's history with Cord? What history?"

The three others exchanged perplexed glances, eyebrows rising. "He didn't tell you?" Steve asked, surprise in his voice. "He didn't say anything about Leonard Cord before all this happened last night?"

Dan shook his head, his brows knit. "Not a word." He looked at all three in turn, his frown deepening. "What do I need to know about Leonard Cord?"

# # # # #

Mike heard the approaching footsteps but elected to keep his eyes closed; he was exhausted in body and soul. This was most likely his lawyer coming by to fill him in on the meeting he'd just had with the ADA.

The footfalls stopped outside his cell door and the unmistakable sound of keys on a metal ring reached his ears as the tumblers clicked over and the door squeaked open. Soft heels stepped into the room and Mike's brow furrowed.

"Daddy?"

His eyes shot open and he pushed himself away from the wall in one quick motion. "Jeannie…" The name was a breathless combination of joy and guilt.

Her purse over her shoulder, both white-knuckled hands around the strap, she was standing just inside the barred steel door that the officer tried somewhat unsuccessfully to close soundlessly. She was trembling, her eyes brimming with tears.

Mike dropped his hands to the bunk to push himself to his feet, forgetting about his injured finger. He gasped, raising his hand quickly as if stung, unable to hide the pain. He rose, keeping his right hand in a loose fist behind his back but he knew she'd seen his reaction.

She raised her eyes from his hidden hand to his face and stared at him silently for several long seconds before asking softly, "Is it true?"

His eyes bored into his daughter's and he took several deep breaths before he thought he could trust his voice. Closing his eyes briefly, he nodded. "Yes, it's true."

Her face crumbled, as did her composure. "Oh, Mike," she whispered as she stepped towards him, throwing her arms around him and burying her head against his chest. His arms remained at his sides for several long seconds before he wrapped them around her and pulled her even closer.

And both of them began to cry.

# # # # #

"Wow." Dan Robbins leaned back in the chair, his eyes dropping to the floor. "No wonder Mike hates Cord. I had no idea, he never said a word."

Steve glanced at Healey and Haseejian. "Well, we've been wondering how the hell Cord ended up here in The City. The last any of us heard he was in Quentin doing 25 to life and he's not even eligible for parole for years. What the hell was he doing on Pier 5 last night?"

"And how the hell did Mike know that?" Healey added.

Dan had become very quiet, he gaze turned inward. Steve picked up on it. "What is it?"

The young inspector looked up, frowning. "I may be wrong but… I've gotten to know Mike's moods pretty good these last few years…" He smiled at Steve. "Well, maybe not as good as you…" he chuckled gently and the others smiled back slightly, then he sobered again. "But for the past few days… I don't know… he just, ah, he seemed distracted. I thought it was the case we were working on but now… I don't know, it could've been something else…" He looked into Steve's eyes. "It could have been Cord."

Steve nodded and looked at Haseejian. "We've gotta find Bill. I want to find out what he knows about why Cord wasn't still in Quentin, why he was here. And how Mike seemed to find out and nobody else did."

Healey cleared his throat discreetly. "Ah, Steve," he said quietly, "you're not a cop anymore, remember?"

The three SFPD officers looked at the professor with affectionate bemusement; even Steve had to smile slightly. "Right," he said with a curt nod, then the smile disappeared. "So, which one of you wants to tell me to go home and forget about it?"

Healey and Haseejian's smiles slowly disappeared but Dan's remained in place. The young inspector shook his head and chuckled. "I always wanted to work a case with you. This isn't exactly the way I'd hoped but…"

Steve's stare slid from Dan to Haseejian. After a long beat, the Armenian sergeant shook his head ruefully. "You'll get no argument from me."

"Me neither," Healey added with a low chuckle. He held his right hand out towards Steve. "Welcome back, Inspector Keller." They shook.


	4. Chapter 4

Jeannie's tears finally stopped but she wouldn't release her father. Eventually her hold on him relaxed and he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her slightly away so he could look into her eyes. He couldn't speak.

Swallowing heavily, she reached up to brush the moisture from her cheeks with the palm of her right hand. "What happens now?" she asked softly, trying to keep her voice from cracking.

Mike inhaled deeply as he stared at his only child; he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. "Now, you leave here and get on with your life and I, ah…" he cleared his throat, "I start to pay for what I did."

She began to shake her head slowly, her face starting to crumble again and he slid his hands from her shoulders to her upper arms, increasing the pressure of his grip, ignoring the pain in his right hand. "Sweetheart, I pled guilty. It's over."

"No… no… no," she began to intone softly as the last thread of her composure unraveled and she fell against him once more, her trembling arms circling his chest, her hands grasping desperately at the fabric of his knit vest.

She wasn't going to let him go.

# # # # #

They heard a door open at the far end of the corridor and two sets of footsteps growing louder as they approached. Mike opened his eyes and looked at the door. He was sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall, his left arm around his daughter beside him, her head against his chest. She was gently holding his injured right hand in both of hers as she listened to the comforting beat of his heart, feeling his warmth and his strength.

The uniformed sergeant appeared on the other side of the bars, the keys jangling as heavy metal door was unlocked and pulled open. Jack Fowler stepped into the small concrete room, nodding at his client with a grim smile. "Mike."

"Jack," Mike nodded back as Jeannie opened her eyes and faced the newcomer. Her father lifted his arm from around her shoulders and they both sat up. "This is my daughter, Jeannie. Sweetheart, this is Jack Fowler, my lawyer."

"Jeannie," Fowler said softly with another nod.

Not trusting the strength of her voice, she nodded back.

"Listen, ah, Mike, we have to talk," Fowler started tentatively, his eyes flashing from his client to the young woman.

Mike looked at his daughter. "Sweetheart –" he began but she cut him off, getting to her feet.

"It's okay, Daddy, I can wait out there with Dan." She bent over to retrieve her purse from the floor, glancing at Fowler as she did so. "Take your time, Mr. Fowler, but please try to get him out of here."

Both men froze as she flashed one more quick look at her father then stepped through the door, allowing the sergeant to close and lock it after her.

Mike looked at Fowler and smiled weakly. "She's not joking," he said with a sad chuckle.

"I didn't think she was," Fowler replied with a dry laugh of his own as he set his briefcase on the end of the bunk and pulled the grey metal chair closer before sitting. "But I do have something I want to talk to you about… something Gerry proposed. And I think you might find it agreeable."

# # # # #

The four men in the wooden chairs looked up as the door from the holding cell area opened and Jeannie Stone preceded the sergeant into the room. All of them scrambled to their feet at different speeds, Steve first. Her eyes fell on him and widened in surprise and relief and she almost jogged across the room, her arms out before she reached him.

"Oh Steve," she sobbed as they embraced and she buried her head into his shoulder. He held her tightly, one hand on the back of her head, his eyes closed. The others shuffled uncomfortably; the emotion was so raw.

Eventually Jeannie pulled away and took a step back. She glanced at the others and attempted an apologetic smile, sniffling softly. "I'm sorry, it's just so…"

"Don't worry about it, honey," Healey said tenderly, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezing. "It's how we all feel…"

She smiled at him gratefully and he looked at the floor, removing his hand and stuffing it into his pants pocket, shuffling almost embarrassedly.

"How's he doing?" Dan asked.

Her eyes looked desperate when they met his and she inhaled sharply. "He told me he did it. He said everything I heard was true." She turned her sharp gaze to Steve. "But it can't be, Steve, can it? I mean, I know how much he hated Cord but to beat him to death. Mike wouldn't do that, would he?"

Steve looked quickly at the others before his green eyes settled back on the distraught young woman. "Jeannie, let's sit." After they were settled, he leaned forward and stared at her intently. She braced herself, knowing what he was about to tell her was not going to be easy to hear.

"Back in '73, when all that crap happened with you and Cord, your father and I didn't want to tell you… and I guess there's been no reason to tell you since then but… well, Cord had been taking pictures of you… stalking you, I guess you could call it, and we found them. We were going through them in Mike's office and he, ah, well, he just lost it. Your father attacked him, and it seemed pretty clear that he wanted to kill him. It took a bunch of us," he glanced at Healey, "to pull him off before any real damage was done." Steve sat back and inhaled deeply. "I've never seen your father so angry, so out of control. But he had good reason. Cord was stalking his little girl and he reacted like any loving father would.

"Jeannie, if Leonard Cord was back in town to go after you again, maybe Mike thought the only way to stop him was a permanent way. You've always known that your father would sacrifice his life for yours in a heartbeat. Maybe that's just what he did."

Her blue eyes bored into his as his words sunk in, and the tears that had pooled now started to slide down her cheeks. She reached and took his hands. "Do _you_ think he did it?" she asked softly.

Steve stared at her expressionlessly then took a deep breath. "I never thought I'd ever say this, but I think your father is telling the truth about what happened last night." Reluctantly he nodded slowly, closing his eyes. When he opened them, they too were brimming with tears. "Yes, Jeannie, I think he did it."

# # # # #

Steve, Healey and Haseejian had been sitting silently in the hard wooden chairs for over an hour. Steve still wanted the chance to see his former partner but Mike's lawyer was still in with him so they had had to wait.

Dan had taken Jeannie home. The young woman had held things together exceptionally well after Steve's admission, though her heart was broken.

Haseejian shifted once more before he turned his head towards the younger man on his left. "Do you really think he did it?" he asked softly.

Steve knew the question would be coming; after Jeannie left, conversation had died and they had been waiting in silence, but he knew both detectives wanted, needed, to confirm what they had heard.

Steve almost smiled as he snorted and turned towards his former colleague. He could see Healey's eyes boring into him as well from the other side of the Armenian Robbery sergeant. "No… of course I don't, Norm."

Haseejian shot a look at Healey, frowning. "Then why did you tell –"

"I didn't want to get her hopes up. I have to talk to Mike, hear what he has to say, before I really make up my mind… but I know him too well. This is not the Mike I know, and something in my gut tells me he's covering for somebody."

"Yeah," Healey said, sliding forward on his chair so he was perched on the edge, "that crossed my mind too, but who the hell could it be."

Steve shook his head and exhaled loudly. "I have no idea, Dan, but there are probably a lot of candidates out there. I'm sure Leonard Cord pissed off a lot of people in his miserable little life. That's why I want to talk to Mike, get a read on him, and then talk to Bill and see what he's found out."

"Do you really think Mike's going to tell you he didn't do it?" Haseejian asked skeptically, his brow furrowed in doubt.

"No, of course not, but I think I can still read him really well. He was usually pretty good at lying to me and getting away with it for awhile; I'm just hoping that's what he's doing now."

"Hey, you three!" came a gravelly voice from the other side of the counter. They looked that way, seeing the jowly face looking at them with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah?" Haseejian growled, getting to his feet along with the others.

"You guys are waiting to see Stone, right?"

"Well, _I_ am," Steve said, putting a hand on his own chest, "Steve Keller."

The uniformed sergeant hung up the receiver he'd been holding in mid-air. "Well, you're gonna have to wait awhile longer. Stone's lawyer is taking him to the hospital. Don't know when they'll be back. So you can wait or you can come back later."

Steve glanced at the others, suddenly worried. "Hospital? Why is he going to the hospital?"

"I got no idea," the sergeant said gruffly.

"Well, what hospital then?"

"Again, I got no idea." The sergeant glared at them then looked down at the forms on his desk, effectively dismissing them.

"They'd take him to St. Francis," Healey said quickly, "let's go."

With a parting furious glare in the sergeant's direction, Steve followed the two detectives out of the room.

# # # # #

Jack Fowler was sitting on one of the chrome and black chairs in the Emergency waiting room, his open briefcase on his lap, rifling through the papers it contained. Steve, Healey and Haseejian crossed the busy room towards him as fast as they could, Steve slipping into the empty seat beside him.

"Why in the hell was Mike brought here?" he asked, not even bothering with a salutation.

Fowler jumped, his head spinning in Steve's direction, then he relaxed, almost chuckling. He looked up at the two detectives now looming over him. "Oh, it's you guys…. Hi…" he finished sarcastically.

They continued to stare at him and he looked back at Steve, his features softening. He knew the emotions that were boiling beneath the deceptively calm exteriors.

"Don't worry, he's okay. He may have broken a knuckle in his right hand, so he's getting an X-ray."

Steve sagged in the chair, relieved that that was all it was but suddenly confronted with the realization that one way to break a knuckle was to punch something very hard. The two detectives had reached the same conclusion and Haseejian dropped a hand onto the younger man's shoulder and squeezed.

Steve swallowed heavily. "Look, ah, Jack, I know it's not protocol, or even legal, but is there anyway I can see him when you guys get back to the Hall?" He tried to keep the desperation and worry out of his voice.

Fowler stared at him, then glanced up at the other two. "Look," he said quietly, "I sent the patrolman with us down to the cafeteria to get us some coffees. Mike's in Examination Room 2." He gestured down the corridor with his chin. "Be discreet."

Steve stared at him, his eyes widening slightly. Then, without another word, he got slowly to his feet and started down the busy hallway, the blood pounding in his ears.

He reached Room 2 and pushed the heavy wooden door open. In an otherwise empty room, Mike Stone was sitting on the examination table, cradling his injured right hand in his lap. He looked towards the door as it opened and froze.

Steve stepped slowly into the room and allowed the door to close silently behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

Expressionlessly, they stared at each other in silence for a couple of long seconds before Steve stepped closer to the examination table. He nodded towards the older man's lap. "How's the hand?"

Instinctively Mike looked down. "Oh, ah, they're pretty sure the knuckle's broken. We're just waiting for the results of the X-ray. Should be any time now."

He looked up to see Steve staring at the back of his right hand, at the cuts and bruises across all the knuckles. He inhaled loudly, catching the younger man's attention. "Go on," Mike said quietly as he exhaled, "ask it…"

Steve met the now cold blue eyes fiercely. "Ask what?" he responded flatly. "Ask if you really did it?"

Mike stared at him unblinking.

"Why? Would you give _me_ a different answer from the one you gave Jeannie? You _did_ tell her you did it, right?"

"I did," Mike said finally, biting off the words.

"So you're going to lie to me like you lied to her?"

"I didn't lie to her," Mike said calmly.

Steve met the blue eyes angrily. "I don't believe you," he managed to get out softly, and Mike actually smiled.

"I knew you'd say that." He chuckled gently. "Some things never change."

"Exactly!" Steve almost crowed then checked himself and lowered his voice. " _You_ don't change." He pointed at the older man who was watching him with a slightly bemused mien. "You couldn't kill a man with your bare hands; it's not in you."

"You're pretty sure about that, hunh?" Mike asked sarcastically, the green eyes boring into him with barely concealed fury. "Well, maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do."

Steve was breathing heavily through his nose and stepped back to regroup, hands on his hips. Mike followed his every move with deadly calm eyes. Steve stopped moving and took a step closer. "Then what happened last night? How the hell did you and Leonard Cord end up in the same warehouse at the same time? And why the hell wasn't he in Quentin?"

The ghost of a melancholy smile began to play over the older man's lips and he chuckled once more. "So many questions…" he whispered waggishly then his face turned dark and his voice cold. "But you're not a cop anymore, Steve – and you're not my partner. You're just a friend. And I'm not about to tell you what went on last night. I'm the only one that knows. Even my lawyer's in the dark. And that's how it's gonna stay. I pled guilty; I've earned that right." His voice ameliorated somewhat and he even found a very slight smile once again. "That's the way I want it, and that's the way it's gonna be… And you, and Jeannie, and Dan, and everybody else… well, you're all just going to have to live with that."

Steve stared at him, not accepting what he was hearing. "You want your daughter to believe that you are the kind of man who can beat another human being to death with his bare hands?" he asked slowly and pointedly.

Mike didn't move, but his eyes suddenly brightened. After several long beats and a hard swallow, he answered quietly, "It's the best thing for everybody."

"Bullshit! How is it the best thing for you?!" Steve barked, reaching out to squeeze the older man's arm, but Mike pulled away and they both froze.

It was Steve who found his voice first. "This isn't over," he said simply. "I know you're lying."

Mike lifted his chin and any warmth that was left in his eyes disappeared. "Prove it," he snapped coldly through clenched teeth and Steve's heart skipped a beat.

The wooden door was pushed open and a young male voice could be heard. "Mr. Stone, we were right, it _is_ broken but you don't need surgery. Although you will be leaving here in a –" The dark-haired resident looked up from the clipboard in his hand and almost slid to a halt halfway through the door, taking in the two men who seemed to be staring each other down. The tension in the room was palpable. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to –"

"It's okay, Doc," Mike said a little louder than necessary, not taking his eyes from Steve's, who continued to glare back. "This is just a friend of mine. He's leaving."

The pair continued to stare, then Steve snorted loudly and turned towards the door. "Excuse me," he said as he reached over the young doctor's head to grab the door and pull it wider so he could exit. "This isn't over," he said, turning back briefly before disappearing down the corridor.

Mike sagged where he sat, allowing his head to drop. He closed his eyes and sighed. The resident cautiously approached his patient. "Is, ah, is everything all right?"

Mike snorted an almost ironical chuckle and looked up at the now hesitant physician. "No, Dr. Carter, it's really not, but that's neither here nor there." He perked up slightly. "So you're telling me I'm gonna have to have a cast?"

# # # # #

"So, ah, so what do you want to do first?" Healey asked cautiously as he set his coffee cup back on the saucer. The three former colleagues were in a booth in Haseejian's favourite diner; it was close to the hospital, and he had insisted they go there after a very agitated Steve Keller had come striding down the hospital corridor after leaving the examination room.

The black cloud that had seemed to hang over the criminology professor since they left the hospital was finally beginning to dissipate. He was leaning over the table, both hands around the cup before him and staring into space.

Healey glanced at his former partner while they waited for the younger man to respond.

"Bill. We have to find Bill and find out what he's been able to dig up," Steve answered quietly. Very slowly his gaze started to focus and he slipped his hands from around the cup and sat back. "I want to go to the pier and see where everything went down last night, I want to talk to the coroner about Cord's injuries, I want to find out why Cord wasn't in Quentin and I want to find out how come Mike knew about it and nobody else seems to."

Haseejian looked at Healey and cleared his throat. "Ah, don't you, ah… don't you have classes to teach or something like that?"

Steve stared at him blankly, then he snorted, blinking rapidly and looking down. "Shit, you're right, I forgot." He looked at his watch. "Damn it, I missed my 11 o'clock." He looked around the diner quickly. "Have they got a phone?"

"No," Haseejian said quickly, "but there's a payphone about a half block down on the left." Steve started to get up. "You need any change?"

Steve thrust his hand into his right pants pocket and they could hear coins rattling. "No, I got enough. Be right back."

The two detectives watched as the younger man hustled from the diner and disappeared down the street. Hassejian looked at his companion. "So what do _you_ think?"

Healey heaved a loud sigh as he picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. "Part of me hopes Mike _is_ lying… but a bigger part of me grudgingly thinks he's not. I mean, we gotta start with the facts, right? And the only facts we have right now - that Mike was there to surrender when the first car showed up, standing over Cord's dead body, and the cuts and bruises on his hand… well, that's about as close to a smoking gun as you can get, I think." His dark eyes bored into his colleague's. "What about you?"

Haseejian took a long moment before responding. "I think we're gonna have a hard time convincing the kid that, in this instance, he's wrong. But I also think he's gonna have to come to that conclusion on his own. And I'm gonna fight like hell to help him get the answers he needs… and, if we find something along the way that convinces me otherwise? Well, I hope to god we do. I've never wanted to be so wrong in my life."

Healey nodded soberly then a small smile found its way to the surface. "I like that," he said warmly, "but you might not want to call him 'the kid' to his face." He knew that no matter how old Steve got, he would always be 'the kid' to the avuncular Armenian cop.

Haseejian chuckled. "Duly noted. Listen, ah, I'll pay for these," he gestured at the empty coffee cups, "and I'll meet you at the car. You go track our boy down and let's get started. I have a feeling we have a lot of ground to cover before this thing gets settled, one way or the other."

# # # # #

"Bill!" Healey almost yelled as he led the way across the bullpen towards the desk against the far wall.

Sergeant Tanner jumped slightly at the loud salutation before turning to face the familiar voice. "Jesus, Dan –" he began then stopped short, his head recoiling slightly. "Steve…?" He knew instantly why they were all there.

"You're a hard man to track down," Haseejian bellowed as he and the others grabbed chairs from nearby empty desks, pulled them close and sat.

"I've been busy," Tanner offered defensively as he looked slowly from one face to the other, his warm brown eyes finally settling on Steve's. A look of profound sympathy briefly washed over his features and he looked back at the papers on his desk, trying to casually close the open file and slide it over the legal pad.

"We're on your side, Bill," Healey said lowly, putting a hand on the Homicide sergeant's forearm.

"Then you know I can't tell you what I've found out," Tanner said quietly.

Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his eyes boring into his former colleague's profile. "I know Mike confessed, Bill, but I don't believe him. And I don't think you do either." Tanner turned to face him and Steve knew he was right. "We're not here to interfere with your investigation… and I promise you we'll stay out of your way. But I don't think you want to see Mike in prison for the rest of his life anymore than we do." His voice had begun to tremble and he took a few seconds to regain control. "I don't think this case is as cut and dried as everyone seems to believe. I think Mike is covering for someone. And all we need from you right now is just the answers to a few key questions… like how come Cord wasn't in Quentin? How did Mike know that? And how did they both end up at the pier last night… alone?"

Tanner had been staring at Steve impassively as he spoke. He glanced quickly at Healey and Haseejian then reached out and laid a hand on top of the file folder on his desk. "What do you want to know?

# # # # #

Mike sank wearily onto the bunk, his head on the thin pillow, and cradled the still hardening cast on his right hand against his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the harsh, unforgiving glare of the overhead light.

It had been over thirty-six hours since he'd had any rest; he was exhausted in body, mind and spirit. But he knew sleep wouldn't come just yet. He could feel the moisture building in his eyes and the warm trickle of tears as they slid down his temples into his hair.


	6. Chapter 6

"Thanks, honey." Dan Healey smiled up at his wife as she put a large platter of freshly made sandwiches on the coffee table in the middle of the room.

"There's more in the fridge so if you want seconds, just ask." She bent over and kissed her husband, smiling at the others as she disappeared through the archway into the kitchen.

An appreciative chorus of "Thank you's" filled the air as the four men in the Healey living room surveyed the pile of ham-and-cheese and pastrami sandwiches.

"Thanks for the pastrami, Bonnie!" Haseejian yelled at her retreating form as he and Bill Tanner reached for plates from the small stack on the table then picked up one of the sandwiches. Chuckling, the Robbery sergeant looked at Steve and Tanner. "She knows it's my favorite so she always keeps some on hand."

"She spoils you," Healey agreed as he passed a small plate to Steve then took one for himself.

Tanner placed a ham-and-cheese sandwich on his plate then set it on the end table beside him, reaching for his briefcase and putting it on his lap. He had just arrived.

Steve, his attention divided between Tanner and the ham sandwich now on his own plate, took a sip of his beer and watched the black sergeant open the briefcase and remove a medium-sized file folder.

Tanner looked at the other three before he took a deep breath and cocked his head. "Okay, so you guys gotta realize I've been on this for less than twenty-four hours, right? And I don't have the answers to all those questions you asked me, Steve – at least not yet. But I have a pretty good idea why Cord was here and not in Quentin. It still has to be confirmed, but I'm pretty sure it's accurate." He stopped and looked at all three again. "And you're not going to like it… none of you."

# # # # #

"You know, I would never have expected Mike to ever have kale in the house…" Jeannie was looming at the open door of the refrigerator in the Stone kitchen, staring into the crisper. She glanced over her shoulder at Dan Robbins standing at the counter, chopping a large beefsteak tomato.

He chuckled. "He didn't start buying it until about six months ago. He used to tell me he wouldn't buy something he'd never heard of, but I finally convinced him to try it. He still doesn't like it very much but he gets it for me."

Jeannie smiled warmly, turning her attention back to the fridge and starting to remove several items. "You eat here a lot?"

"Oh, about once a week, I guess. Sometimes more when we're working on a really tough one, you know."

"That's good," she said softly, closing the door and crossing to the counter beside him. She was pleased that her father had found common ground with the young man who was so different from Steve; at the beginning of their partnership she had worried that the ice would never be broken.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as she washed the kale and radishes. "Thanks for this," she offered quietly.

Dan had driven her home from the Hall after the reunion with her father; she had been distraught and he was loathe to leave her alone. When he offered to stay and have dinner with her, she jumped at the chance.

He knew Steve and the others were huddled together somewhere trying to decide what to do and how to do it and he longed to be with them, but for the moment this was exactly where he was needed. He would catch up with the others later.

They were quiet for several long seconds as she set out another cutting board and knife. Finally, trying to sound casual, she asked quietly, "So, ah… do you think he did it?"

Dan stopped chopping the kale for a split second then continued. "To be honest, Jeannie, I haven't made my mind up either way. But I think I know your father well enough now that…well, let's just say I don't think he's the kind of man who could beat another man to death, no matter how angry he was."

She had stopped moving and was hanging on his every word. Dan was watching her peripherally; he remembered what Steve had told him about Mike's attack on Cord in the Homicide office years ago, and he also knew that Jeannie was well aware of her father's seething hatred of Cord.

She took a deep unsteady breath. "Then he was lying to me?" she asked hesitantly.

Dan cleared his throat. "Well, maybe it was not so much lying to you as protecting someone else…" he offered, trying to soften the blow.

She turned to him searchingly. "Do you think that's it? Do you think he's covering for someone?" There was a hopeful desperation in her voice that cut through him sharper than the knife in his hand.

He didn't want to destroy her newfound optimism unnecessarily. He took the bunch of radishes from her and set them on the cutting board. "Well, that's one theory, wouldn't you think? I mean, you know, I don't think any of us – you, me, Steve, the guys in the squad – none of us can really believe he did it, so somebody's going to be looking that direction, I would think."

"But he pled guilty… They're going to send him to prison… in the next couple of days, Dan. Can that be reversed? I mean, if someone comes up with something that points to someone else…" She sighed in frustration. "Oh god, you know what I mean…"

Dan stopped chopping again and turned to her, smiling slightly. "Yeah, I know what you mean. And yes, if he isn't really guilty, and he _is_ covering for someone, and we can prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt, he can be pardoned."

Her eyes widened expectantly and a small smile began to curl her lips. For the first time in the past fifteen horrific and life-changing hours there was finally a small light at the end of the very long, dark tunnel.

# # # # #

"Okay, so," Tanner began after he swallowed his first bite of ham-and-cheese, "do you guys remember Oliver Johnson?"

Steve inclined his head, Healey frowned and Haseejian leaned forward, making a face. "That name sounds familiar…" he growled under his breath.

"It should. He was Cord's court-appointed lawyer."

"Right!" Steve hissed, shaking his head as the others nodded in confirmation. "He was an asshole, if I remember correctly."

Tanner chuckled. "You do. Well, turns out he was an even bigger asshole that we thought." He took a couple of sheets of paper out of the briefcase and held them up. "Okay so, before I go any further, none of what I'm about to tell you leaves this room."

He looked at each of them individually and after a couple of silent seconds, one by one they all nodded, frowning in consternation and confusion.

"Okay thanks," Tanner nodded, obviously relieved. "So, well, I'm still trying to get this straight in my own mind so… bear with me here. From what I've been able to piece together… and it's by no means a complete picture as yet… it seems that Johnson turned out not to be a real lawyer."

There was a beat or two of dead air then Healey said quietly, "What?"

"Johnson never passed the bar – in California or anywhere else for that matter. He was a fraud."

"A fraud…" Haseejian repeated mechanically.

"His law degree was bogus, and someone in the California Department of Justice seems to have uncovered that little fact about a year ago."

"A year ago? So why hasn't anyone heard about it before now?" Healey barked and Tanner shot him a scowl.

"I'm getting to that, Dan." Healey snorted an apology and the Homicide sergeant swallowed a smile. "From what I've been able to uncover – and I'm sure it's not the entire story but it's on the right track – for some reason someone at the CDOJ started to look into Johnson's credentials and this is when the fraud was exposed. Needless to say, there were a lot of red faces, to say the least, in the Attorney General's office.

"But then somebody realized that not only was the fraud going to shine the wrong kind of light on the CDOJ and its hiring practices, but that any case that Johnson handled during his time as a public defender was subject to review, and his clients could, and probably would, be granted new trials."

"Son of a bitch," Haseejian muttered under his breath as all the frowns deepened.

Tanner nodded in commiseration. "Anyway, from what I can gather, the powers that be wanted to keep everything 'in camera'. There was a tremendous concern that if knowledge of this got out, all hell would break loose, and they were probably right. But things got a little complicated and some of Johnson's clients, the ones who had been incarcerated on lesser charges – robbery, assault, extortion, that kind of thing – were released pending review of their cases."

"Okay, I can understand that," Steve said finally, not taking his eyes from Tanner's face, knowing there was more to come. "But Cord was in for murder. Surely they didn't let him out?"

Tanner shook his head. "As far as I can tell, anyone incarcerated for manslaughter or murder was going to remain in custody pending the investigation into Johnson's fraud case, but they were still probably going to be eligible for a retrial."

"So how…?" Healey prompted anxiously.

Tanner took a deep breath. "Well, from what I've been able to uncover so far, Cord was released by mistake."

"By _mistake_?" Steve repeated derisively, looking both stunned and angry.

With a sympathetic shake of his head, the Homicide sergeant continued. "Now I don't have names but it seems that whoever was in charge of going through the list of Johnson's clients accidentally – or so we hope - superimposed the records of several of the convicted felons Johnson represented. There is a possibility that the only thing that showed up on Cord's record was the charge of aggravated assault – not murder and not even attempted murder. And so he was released two days ago."

"Oh my god," Healey whispered, almost too dazed to get any breath behind his voice.

Tanner nodded, eyebrows elevated. Steve raised his hands to his face, covering his eyes then slid them down till his palms were together in front of his mouth. A tense silence filled the room as they contemplated what they had just been told. Eventually Steve lowered his hands. "So how did Mike know about all this?"

The black sergeant shook his head. "I haven't figured that out yet. All I do know is that Cord was dropped off here in The City by the prison bus that regularly transports paroled and released prisoners out of Quentin, along with eight other guys."

"He was just released?" Steve asked, his thoughts reeling and his emotions roiling. "No follow-up, no legal tether?"

Tanner shook his head again. "Nope, not a thing. He was dressed in civvies and he had twenty-five bucks in his pocket. He was, for all intents and purposes, a free man."


	7. Chapter 7

"Why wasn't anybody notified?" Haseejian demanded, trying unsuccessfully to keep the anger out of his voice.

Bill Tanner sighed and shook his head. "I haven't been able to pin that down yet, but from what I gather right now, the CDOJ was trying to keep a lid on everything because there is so much at stake. And I don't think anyone was anticipating this kind of a screw-up."

"I think _screw-up_ is putting it mildly," Healey growled, sitting back in the armchair, his sandwich now forgotten.

An uneasy silence settled over the room, each man lost in his own thoughts.

"You've done great work here, Bill," Steve said finally and the others nodded.

Tanner smiled shyly. "Thanks, guys. Uh, I'm not done yet, not by a long shot, and I have a feeling it's going to get a lot tougher and slower from here on out. Especially if Mike's not going to offer anything in the way of a defence." He looked at Steve and smiled sadly. "I asked Jack Fowler if I could get in to see him today and Jack told me Mike refused."

Steve snorted mirthlessly. "I'm not surprised. He wouldn't tell me anything either."

"You got to see him?" Tanner's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"For a few minutes in the hospital while they X-rayed his hand. He basically told me he did it and if I didn't believe him, then prove him wrong." Steve glanced at the others and a small smile appeared. "I fully intend to take him up on that challenge."

Healey chuckled. "Do you think he did that deliberately?"

"What?" Steve seemed confused.

"Challenge you to prove him wrong? Do you think he did that so you would look into all this a little closer? To really and truly prove him innocent?"

A few long silent seconds filled the room, all eyes on the former detective turned professor. Eventually Steve shook his head quickly, his sudden smile ironic. "Oh my god, can you believe I never even thought of that? I mean, I was so mad at him for just… dismissing me… I never even thought about that."

Haseejian tilted his head. "If I've learned anything over the years, it's never to underestimate Mike Stone. I think you have to entertain the idea that he just played you."

Steve let his head drop; his shoulders began to shake and the others could hear the faint sound of a dry, humorless laugh. Healey looked at Haseejian and Tanner and smiled; the barest hint of a newfound optimism could be felt in the room.

The loud _ding-dong_ of the doorbell made them all jump. With an annoyed frown, Healey got to his feet. "Who the hell is that?" he grumbled to himself as crossed to the front door, turning the deadbolt and pulling it open with barely concealed annoyance.

Jack Fowler was standing on the stoop, a pleased grin on his face. "Ah ha, you _are_ all here!" he crowed without preamble as he pushed his way past the detective and into the living room.

Healey followed the newcomer's entrance with an irritated scowl, automatically closing and locking the door as the lawyer strode up to the others, greeting them individually with nods as he continued, "I was hoping to find you altogether; makes what I'm about to tell you easier."

"How did you know we were here?" Haseejian asked through a narrowed stare.

Fowler graced him with a patient glare and a sigh. "Lawyers can be pretty good detectives too, you know. As a matter of fact, I was a cop down in San Jose for two years before I decided to trade in my squad car for a desk and move north." He smiled smugly. "I figured you guys would be getting your heads together to figure out how to help Mike, if you could, and I also figured it would have to be at someone's residence, to be discreet. I also know Steve's no longer living in The City, so that narrowed it down. I only had four places to check." He turned his keen brown eyes on Steve. "It's kinda hard to miss that Porsche of yours. Still running okay after all these years?"

"Yeah," the criminology professor answered slowly, "I take good care of it." He glanced at the others. "Okay, you found us. What do you want to tell us?" From Fowler's nonchalant, almost casual demeanor, he had surmised it wasn't something grim, but one could never be sure with lawyers, he thought.

"Well, you took off from the hospital so fast, I didn't have time to tell you." Fowler sobered, glancing once more at all four, his smile now reassuring.

"Um, before you start, can I get you a beer or something?" Healey offered, ever the gracious host.

Fowler held up a hand. "No thanks, Dan. I only have a few minutes. But I just wanted to let you guys know that I spoke to Gerry O'Brien earlier today, right after the hearing to be exact, and he had an interesting proposition for, ah, for this whole mess."

He looked directly at Steve and smiled. "He took the second degree murder charges off the table… He offered voluntary manslaughter, with three years at the medium security unit at Tehachapi." The smile disappeared. "I know it's not close… but it's not for life and it's not Quentin."

Nobody moved or said a word. Fowler eventually continued. "I talked to Mike about it, and he agreed. So did the judge. So he's, ah, he's going to be sentenced tomorrow morning at 11 o'clock." He looked at them all sympathetically. "I, ah… I just thought you should know."

No one moved or made a sound. Very slowly every pair of eyes drifted towards Steve, who was staring down at the carpet between his feet. He had held his breath while the attorney held the floor; now he let the air out slowly and loudly.

Fowler glanced nervously at the others then cleared his throat. "Listen, Steve, it was the best –"

The younger man's head came up quickly and he smiled. "Jack," he said sharply and Fowler stopped talking. "I'm not upset. I'm grateful. I think what you and Gerry have done here is… is remarkable." He got slowly to his feet and held out his right hand. "Thank you," he said simply.

His face softening from guilt to relief, Fowler shook the proffered hand. "You're welcome," he responded sincerely, "but it was all Gerry's doing. It was his initiative."

"Then I owe Gerry a debt of thanks too," Steve said, enfolding the lawyer's hand in both his own.

Nodding agreeably and proudly, Fowler glanced at his watch as Steve released his hand. "Listen, ah, I want to tell Mike's daughter about this development so she doesn't go to bed tonight thinking her dad is on his way to San Quentin in the morning. Do any of you guys know where she is?"

"I know where she is, Jack," Steve offered, "I'll let her know."

Fowler looked at him, frowning. "You sure? It's no problem for me –"

"No no, I want to," Steve smiled. "She's had a rough day too and I think this'll bring her a little peace. I'll do it."

"Okay, then I'll leave you gentlemen to… whatever it was you were doing, and I'm going to get home to my wife and a home-cooked dinner."

Healey got to his feet as Fowler started towards the front door. The heavy-set SFPD sergeant put an arm around the lawyer's shoulders after opening the door. "Thanks, Jack. That was probably the best news we coulda gotten tonight. Appreciate you tracking us down," he chuckled, "to let us know."

"Well," Fowler grinned, "I'm always looking for the opportunity to show you guys that lawyers, even PBA lawyers, aren't all shysters and bastards. See ya, fellas!"

Healey closed the door and turned back to the room. "Well, that was an unexpected but very welcome turn of events."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, reaching towards the back of the sofa to snag his jacket and shrug it on, patting the pockets to find his keys. "Listen, I know Jeannie's at her Dad's place. I'm just gonna head on over there and tell her the news before I go home." He looked at the others. "You guys gonna be there tomorrow morning?"

"You bet," Healey nodded while Haseejian growled, "Of course."

Tanner shrugged. "It all depends what Roy wants me to do. Oh, I don't know if you guys heard, but word came down late this afternoon that Devitt is going to be running Homicide for the foreseeable future. I know he doesn't want the job permanently so…"

Steve nodded, weighing this new information then looked at his host. "Dan, thanks a lot, and thank Bonnie for me, will ya? Bill – yeoman work, man, really. I want to talk to you more about what you found and where to go from here. Norm." He turned back at the door, hesitating a few seconds before saying softly, "I feel a lot better about everything right now than I've felt all day. There's a lot of things we still don't know, but we're gonna find out. And this isn't over yet – not by a long shot."

# # # # #

Jeannie opened the door on a slightly panting Steve Keller. The former cop was shaking his head and smiling sheepishly. She opened her mouth to say something but he held up a forefinger and she stopped. A few laboured breaths later he gasped, "My new life doesn't contain as many hills and stairs as it used to. I must be out of shape."

Despite everything she had been going through all day, the younger woman managed to find a grin. She reached out to grab his hand and pull him into the house. "That just means you haven't been visiting as much as you should."

Playfully stumbling into the living room, Steve smiled and nodded at Dan, who was standing in front of the couch. "Dan. I figured you were here – I thought I recognized your truck down the block."

"He stayed for dinner." Jeannie closed the door and moved past Steve towards the kitchen. "Do you have time to stay for some tea? We have a pot of camomile steeping."

"Camomile? You don't have any coffee?" Steve's brows had knit and Dan couldn't contain a snort and a low chuckle.

Jeannie rolled her eyes and turned to the kitchen. "I'll put the percolator on."

"Listen, ah, there's a couple of developments I want to tell you two about." Steve offered gently, following her into the kitchen, Dan on his heels.

Jeannie continued to very deliberately set out and fill the percolator, giving her an excuse not to face him while she waited for him to continue.

He knew how on edge she was and wasted no time. "It's good news, Jeannie. Well, as good as we could hope for right now." He saw her catch her breath but continue to prep the coffee maker.

Steve glanced at Dan and smiled. "Gerry O'Brien went to Jack Fowler with a proposition, and everyone has agreed to it, including the judge and your dad." Jeannie looked up at him, a slightest trace of hope in her troubled eyes. "The charge of murder in the second degree has been downgraded to voluntary manslaughter."

Dan exhaled heavily and dropped his head. Jeannie glanced at him and then back at Steve. "What does that mean?"

He smiled encouragingly. "That means Mike's not going to Quentin and the length of his sentence has been reduced from the possibility of life down to three years."

"What facility?" Dan asked, finding his voice.

"Tehachapi." Jeannie frowned and Steve expounded. "Southeast of Bakersfield. It's medium security. He'll be housed in a sort of dormitory instead of a cell, he'll have work privileges and there's the possibility that, in time, he could be moved to a minimum security facility closer to home or even released early."

When he finished talking, Jeannie turned back to the counter, plugging the percolator cord into the wall socket. She remained facing the counter, and both men could see her start to shake. Steve stepped closer and wrapped both arms around her, pulling her against his chest.

"I know, honey, I know." She sobbed silently, reaching up to grab his forearms as she squeezed her eyes closed, giving in to the helplessness that had enveloped her since the early morning call that had changed her life.

Glancing sadly at Dan, Steve laid his cheek against the top of her head. "I know, I know, I know…" he kept crooning.


	8. Chapter 8

"You sure you're gonna be okay here alone?"

"Steve, I've been living in this house my entire life. I'll be fine."

She was holding the heavy front door halfway closed; he was on the landing, brows knit, hands on hips. Dan was behind him, already down a couple of steps.

"All right, well, try to get some sleep, okay? And I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Don't forget," Dan interjected, pointing at her, "I'll swing by to pick you up at 10, make sure we get there in plenty of time."

"I'll be ready," she smiled, then stared at them both with undisguised affection. "I can't thank you enough, either of you. You're like the big brothers I never had."

Steve glanced quickly at Dan, an acerbic comment swirling through his quick mind, but instantly decided that this was not the time nor the place and that the emotion behind her unabashed declaration was genuine. Instead he smiled at her warmly and glanced at Dan.

"I can think of a worse compliment," he replied with a gentle laugh and a wink.

"Lock and put the chain on the door." He pointed at it and she laughed and nodded as she pushed the heavy door closed. They waited till they heard the snap of the deadlock sliding into place before heading down the steep concrete steps.

# # # # #

Jeannie leaned against the heavy wooden door and looked around the living room, trying not to cry. Slowly she pushed herself upright and crossed to the coffee table, picking up the mugs and small plates and taking them into the kitchen, placing them carefully in the sink. She unplugged the percolator and turned off the element under the teapot.

Snapping off the kitchen light, she made her way slowly up to the second floor. As if by an unseen hand, she was pulled into her father's room. She turned on the ceiling light. It was neat and tidy, as always; the bed was made and there were no clothes strewn about.

She sat on the edge of the bed and let her eyes travel the room slowly. It was much the same as when her mother had been alive; Mike had seen no reason to change anything.

There was one new item, she knew, in a silver frame on the bureau: an 8x10 black and white photo of her parents in happier times, a candid shot taken at a party when Mike had made sergeant. Though surrounded by friends and family, her parents only had eyes for each other.

She closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She had to become stronger, she knew, in the weeks, months and possibly years ahead. Mike would need her strength more than either of them would ever have imagined, and she vowed to be there for him at every twist and turn of the uncertain road ahead.

He had been an extraordinary father; she now needed to become the extraordinary daughter. She owed him that much.

Getting to her feet, she crossed back to the door, snapped off the light and strode purposefully down the hallway to her own room.

# # # # #

"Look, ah, there's a few things you need to know that I didn't want to tell Jeannie," Steve said when they reached the sidewalk and started downhill toward their vehicles. "And we're gonna have to take a low profile when we start getting deeper into this whole thing. With Mike being sentenced tomorrow, I'm pretty sure the brass, and everyone else, is gonna just wash their hands of the whole sordid affair, Mike or no Mike, so we've gotta get pro-active on our own. Not to mention the fact that I'm not supposed to be doing this at all."

Dan, matching the older man stride for stride, snorted dryly and nodded. "So what do you want to do?"

Steve glanced at his watch. "Look, I know it's late, but I want to fill you in before the hearing tomorrow. There's that all night diner over on Folsom, near – "

"I know the one," Dan cut him off. "Mike and I go there late sometimes to talk things out."

Steve smiled. "Of course you do… So, ah, why don't we head over there and I can get you up to speed over a cup of cof-… of tea? How does that sound?"

Dan chuckled. "I wasn't counting on getting much sleep tonight anyway."

# # # # #

He had barely slept. The light in the corridor had stayed on all night and there was constant noise from the other cells. Someone was drunk or high and had proclaimed so to the world at the top of their lungs for what seemed like hours.

His knuckle throbbed under the heavy cast that immobilized his fingers and ended halfway down his forearm. Even the aspirin hadn't helped.

He had no idea what time it was; they had taken his watch for some reason. _Like I could use it to threaten someone, or to escape?_ he thought life from the other side of the bars was going to be an entirely new, and probably not congenial, experience.

He sat up slowly, stiff from the hard mattress and thin pillow. Stacked neatly on the floor near the door were the government-issue clothes that had been delivered the night before: charcoal grey pants, a medium gray long-sleeved shirt, black socks and black sneakers.

He looked down at the blue-and-white striped shirt and light blue vest he was still wearing. He hoped the shirtsleeve would slip over the cast so they didn't have to cut it off. He sighed; this would be the last time he would be wearing his own clothes for quite awhile, he figured.

But not as long as he had previously thought. When Jack Fowler had come to him with O'Brien's offer yesterday, he hadn't believed his ears at first. It was a gift – one he knew he had to accept, for a number of reasons, all of which he would keep to himself.

There was just too much at stake.

# # # # #

By 10:30 the small courtroom was already filled. The gallery, mostly current but off-duty SFPD personnel, were cognizant of the gravity of the situation, and well aware of the pedantic and taciturn judge overseeing the proceedings. No one wanted to rock the boat.

Jeannie, Steve and Dan had managed to secure three seats directly behind the defendant's table. It would be the last time they would be allowed to see Mike until he had passed through the deceptively titled 'Reception' process after his arrival at Tehachapi. That procedure could take several days to several weeks.

Jeannie glanced at her wristwatch again then looked at the closed far door and bit her lip. She felt Steve's hand on her forearm and a gentle squeeze. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to relax; she was only minimally successful.

A heavy-set middle-aged woman, her longish dirty blond hair unkempt and her eyes dull and sunken, was being sentenced for second degree murder for the bludgeoning death of her husband. Her lawyer was asking the judge to take into consideration the history of domestic abuse when handing down his ruling.

Jeannie was really not paying much attention. When the sentence was finally delivered and the woman escorted from the room, Jeannie sat up ramrod straight, continuing to stare at the side door.

It seemed like an interminable wait until Mike, in his crisp new prison issue clothes, was escorted into the room. Because of the cast he couldn't be cuffed, but he held his hands in front of himself as he preceded both Jack Fowler and the court officer towards the defendant's table.

His haunted blue eyes raked the gallery, quickly settling on the three welcome and familiar faces in the front row. He managed a small quick smile and a wink as he and Fowler took their places behind the table, Mike taking the inside seat, Fowler in the chair near the centre aisle.

ADA O'Brien had entered the room from the outside corridor and dropped a file on the prosecutor's table. He remained standing.

The hearing went quickly, the ADA presenting the state's side with the recommendation that the charges be reduced and that the sentence reflect that contingency. Following procedure, the judge briefly consulted with Fowler, who voiced no objections. The motion to accept the new charges was accepted, and the sentence was handed down: three years in the medium security prison at Tehachapi with the possibility of parole after two.

Then it was over. The court officer approached Mike, who stood, and took his arm. As he started to be led across the room, Mike looked over his shoulder. Three pairs of eyes were boring into him, the two young men trying to look stoic and optimistic, his daughter valiantly attempting to smile through her tears.

As his heart broke and his vision blurred, he managed a weak but warm grin and he winked again. "I love you," he mouthed as he was led across the room and out the door.

Jeannie stood as if rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space where her father had just been. The judge banged the gavel against the block, trying to restore order in the hopes he could proceed with his heavy calendar, but there were too many people now milling about. The bailiff and court officer approached the gallery, urging everyone present only for the Stone sentencing to make a quick and quiet exit.

Steve took Jeannie's elbow and began to pull her along the row of seats to the center aisle. She couldn't take her eyes from the now closed side door.

"Miss…"

She blinked quickly several times, refocusing on the florid face of the bailiff. He smiled kindly.

"Miss, I'm afraid you're going to have to leave. We have a lot of other cases we –"

"Oh, of course, I'm sorry." Jeannie shook her head quickly and smiled apologetically. She glanced up at Steve beside her. "I'm sorry…" she said quietly again as they both turned up the aisle and exited into the busy corridor.

Steve could see Dan huddling with Healey, Haseejian, Tanner and Lee Lessing about twenty feet away. He pulled Jeannie to a stop. "Wait here, I'll be right back."

She nodded, glancing at the group down the hall then back at Steve. She wasn't sure why he didn't want her to join them but she wasn't about to argue. She had known since yesterday that Mike's colleagues, both former and present, were determined to get to the bottom of this whole sordid mess, that none of them were satisfied with the unexpected and totally out of character admission from her father.

That mere fact alone gave her strength.

Jack Fowler approached the group from the far side, handing Steve a large paper bag and whispering in his ear. Steve accepted the bag and shook the lawyer's hand. Jeannie watched as he talked to the others for a couple of minutes. Then there were nods all around and, as he started back towards Jeannie, Dan and the others continued down the corridor towards the elevators.

Steve hefted the bag as he approached. "Jack Fowler wanted me to give this to you."

She was surprised at how heavy it was when she took it. Her brow furrowed. "What is it?"

He hesitated for a long beat before sighing loudly. "Mike's clothes and his shoes. He won't be needing them where he's going."


	9. Chapter 9

"Wow," Steve chuckled, looking around the small, now overflowing living room. "I never thought I'd see all you guys together in the same room again." The core group had been joined by Homicide Sergeant Lee Lessing. "Let me tell ya, if the six of us can't get to the bottom of this, nobody can."

"Hear, hear," Haseejian said quietly as he accepted the cold can of Bud from his host. Dan leaned over the Robbery sergeant to pass a can to Healey. Haseejian looked up. "Hey, I didn't know you drank beer. I thought you were a vegetarian."

Steve, Lessing and Tanner snorted as Dan rolled his eyes. "Norm, you can be a vegetarian and still drink beer. There are no meat products in beer." He chuckled. "But you're right, I don't. I bought this for you guys, and I keep a couple of cans in the fridge in case Mike drops by. I'm having iced tea."

Haseejian turned to the others with a 'well-what-do-you-know' shrug and everyone laughed.

"So, fellas, I've been giving this some thought, as I bet you all have," Steve continued, putting his beer down and picking up a pad and pen, "and there're a lot of avenues we're gonna have to investigate if we want to prove that Mike didn't kill Cord."

"And it's going to have to be iron-clad," Healey added, "'cause we all know how hard it is to get a conviction reversed, even when there's enough evidence, if the confession isn't retracted."

Everyone nodded. "Yeah, that's the biggest question I have, of course… _Who_ is Mike covering for? I've been wracking my brain and I can't come up with anybody. I mean, even if Cord did have time to get in touch with Mike and threaten Jeannie or me or Dan…" Steve shrugged. "It just doesn't make any sense that something would escalate so fast that Mike would beat him to death with his fists. I mean, Mike had a gun; why didn't he just shoot him?"

"Not to mention how did Mike know where to find him? Cord had only been in the city a little over twenty-four hours. And why pier 5?" Dan asked rhetorically.

"So, look, ah, we've got a hell of a lot of ground to cover, but we also have to realize that we all have other jobs. This has to be done totally on our own time. Now it's not like we're doing something illegal, so we don't have to sneak around, but we all have to be very careful not to let this investigation interfere with our real jobs. I don't want anyone getting reprimanded or, god forbid, fired." Steve looked at them all pointedly. "Nobody oversteps their bounds and nobody does anything… borderline, if you know what I mean. Whatever we uncover has to be rock solid and legitimate.

"Now I know we all want to do whatever we can for Mike, we owe him that. But he'll have our heads if we jeopardize our careers, or our lives, in the pursuit of something that I have a feeling he really doesn't want us to find out."

"So you really think he's covering for someone?" Lessing asked.

Steve turned intense green eyes on his former colleague. "I don't have a shadow of a doubt."

# # # # #

Behind the sunglasses, Jeannie glanced up at the waitress and smiled. "Thank you."

Nodding pleasantly, the young woman finished refilling the coffee cup then headed back behind the counter. Jeannie glanced across the table as she picked up the small porcelain milk jug. Dan was staring morosely at his cup of tea, both hands resting lightly on the table. She smiled sympathetically.

"You look how I feel," she said lightly, and he looked up guiltily.

"Oh jeez, I'm sorry, Jeannie –"

She leaned across the table and put a hand on his forearm. "It's okay, Dan," she cut him off. "I didn't mean anything by it." Her smile was forgiving and he relaxed. She looked towards the restaurant entrance again. "I know Steve said he was going to be late but…"

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than her father's former partner strode quickly through the open front door and towards their table. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he grumbled as he slid into the booth beside Dan, taking them both in with an apologetic grimace. "Last minute phone call."

The waitress had started towards them. Steve glanced at the table, noting only the cups and saucers. "Have you guys ordered?"

"We were waiting for you," Jeannie shrugged with a smile.

The waitress handed Steve a menu. He took it but didn't open it. "Don't need this," he grinned. "Mike and I had breakfast here quite a lot and I'm pretty sure the menu hasn't changed much in the past three years. I'll take two eggs sunny side up with a side of toasted sourdough."

"And coffee?" the waitress asked with a chuckle.

"And coffee," Steve confirmed. He turned to the others. "And you guys?"

When the waitress left with their orders, Steve turned his attention to Jeannie and Dan. 'The, ah, the phone call was from Jack Fowler. Seems there was a prison bus leaving for Chino and Vacaville so they decided to expedite things." He looked at Jeannie and sighed. "They put Mike on the bus… he's on his way to Tehachapi." He glanced at his watch. "Hell, he might be there already."

Though they couldn't see her eyes behind the dark glasses, both men watched as her lips tightened and she swallowed shakily. Steve reached across the table and squeezed her forearm. "He'll be okay, honey, I promise."

She nodded unsteadily, trying to find a smile. "It's all happening so fast." Her voice was thin and tremulous.

Dan sighed. "Well, Mike made it easier on them by confessing."

All three nodded vaguely in reluctant agreement. The waitress returned with Steve's coffee and they waited in silence until she left; Steve leaned towards Jeannie. "I think you need to go back to Seattle," he said quietly.

She sat back slightly, then reached up and took the glasses off so he could see her eyes. She wasn't pleased. "I'm not going to –"

"Jeannie," Steve spoke sharply, commanding her attention, "what good are you going to do staying here? Mike's not here anymore, and, to be honest, Dan and I and the others aren't going to get much done in the next few days." He saw her eyes dart to her father's partner for confirmation. "It's going to take time, Jeannie, we can't perform miracles. Dan has cases to work, just like the others do, and I can't just walk away from my students. I don't have the luxury of tenure yet."

He stopped and sighed. "Honey, the best thing you can do for your dad right now is to back to Seattle and keep working on your doctorate. You know that's what he'd want, right?"

She was staring at him expressionlessly, but he felt he was making progress.

"Listen, Dan and I, we're not going to stop trying to find out what really happened that night, but it's not going to be easy and it's not going to be fast."

She had begun to nod slowly and he knew he had gotten through. "I just keep thinking about him in prison…" Her voice cracked.

Both men reached across the table, taking her hands. "I can't stand the thought of him there either, Jeannie," Dan said softly. "And I promise I am going to do everything I can to get to the truth about what happened to Cord. And if Mike really didn't do it, I'll put my career on the line to get him out of there."

Her blue eyes bored into him and tears brimmed but didn't fall. "Mike's always had the best partners…"

The waitress approached with an oversized platter she set down on an empty table nearby, placing their orders before them. They watched her work in silence. When she had once again disappeared, Steve raised his coffee cup.

Glancing first at Dan, he looked at the young woman across the table. "Jeannie Stone, I promise you that the next time we sit at this table for breakfast, your father will be with us. Let's just hope it's sooner than any of us can imagine."

# # # # #

"Well, I'm glad she realized the best thing she could do for her father was to go back to school." Dan was sitting behind he wheel of the tan LTD he had 'borrowed' to take them all to the airport.

The older man sighed. "Yeah, me too. It'll be good for her to be able to concentrate on something besides what Mike's going through, if she can." He snorted mirthlessly. "I know I'm having a hard time."

Dan nodded. "Me too." He sighed. "So, what do you want to do first?"

Steve thought for a few long seconds. "Well, Norm and Dan are going to dig up the complete file on Cord and hopefully they'll get that to us tonight or tomorrow. Bill's gotta wrap up the paperwork on Mike but he's gonna try to get us a list of everyone working at Quentin. That's gonna take some time, I'm sure."

"And Lee's gonna see if he can track Mike's movements on that night and that's gonna be tough, I would think. Especially as he's still working on that hit-and-run from the other night."

"Yeah," Steve glanced at his watch. "I only have about three hours before I have to be back at Berkeley – night class. Well, then let's you and I go see Bernie. I want to find out what really happened to Cord that night." He paused and chuckled slightly. "Um, you're gonna have to get me in, you being the cop and all that, right…?"

Dan frowned with mock severity and nodded sternly. "Yes, of course, you're just an… oh, an interested observer. How about I 're-introduce' you to Bernie as a –"

"Homicidal voyeur?" Steve offered playfully with a smirk then frowned. "No wait, that came out wrong…"

"No," Dan said slowly and sarcastically, suppressing a laugh, "I was thinking more along the lines of, I don't know, maybe you need to do some research for one of your lectures…?"

"Yeah, he'll buy that," Steve said skeptically. "Let's not kid ourselves, he's gonna know exactly why I'm there; he's no dummy."

"That's for sure, but maybe we can provide him with an excuse if he ever has to explain why you were there."

"Good point. Okay, let's get out of here. I want to get started on this while we have the chance. I can't stand the idea of Mike spending any more time in prison than he has to."

With a confirming nod, Dan started the car and pulled out of the airport parking lot.

# # # # #

"I wish I could be the bearer of better news, gentlemen, but there's nothing I can add to the initial report. Leonard Cord was beaten to death by repeated blows to the head."

"And you're sure it was by fists and not a piece of wood or a metal bar or a sap or –"

"Steve," Bernie interrupted with a dry chuckle, "I already told you. It definitely was fists, human fists. I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but it is what it is."

"Well, was he hit hard enough that whoever did it might have broken their hand, or a knuckle?"

"Oh I would say so. Cord was almost unrecognizable. I would be very surprised if whoever did it walked away without some kind of injury, that's for sure." The coroner fell silent and his brow furrowed. "Why? Does Mike…?" He left the rest of the question hang.

Steve nodded sadly. "He, ah, he broke the knuckle on the middle finger of his right hand." He smiled dryly at the balding older man. "Thanks." He sighed. "It's just…"

"I know you want to think maybe Mike didn't do, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can tell you that isn't in my report. Leonard Cord was beaten to death." Bernie looked at Dan regretfully. "Sorry, fellas."

# # # # #

He sat slowly on the hard bunk in the small single cell. The bus ride down from The City in the middle of the night had been long and uncomfortable. With several other men of various ages and ethnicities, he had begun the intake process. He was signed in, questioned, strip-searched, photographed and fingerprinted, and issued toiletries and a second set of clothes.

He was offered the option of a shower and he accepted. With unexpected compassion, they acquired a plastic bag from someone's desk and a roll of duct tape and covered the cast on his right hand. He used the short time under the water to try to get his emotions under control.

He was told he was allowed a phone call but had declined; he wanted to wait several days to hopefully settle in before he talked to anyone. And he knew the sound of his voice right now would break his daughter's heart even more, not to mention his own.

He didn't know how long it would take for the 'Reception' process to end; only then would he be integrated into the general prison population and moved into one of the dormitories.

' _Dormitory,'_ he thought, unable to resist a slight smile. He hadn't slept in a dormitory since he was a Marine. He closed his eyes. He was going to respect all the rules, follow all the orders and keep his head down. He could survive this, he knew; after all, three years wasn't that long…


	10. Chapter 10

"Inspector Robbins, Homicide."

" _Yeah, Dan, it's Steve. Listen, I just got a call from Norm. Seems they can't get Cord's file out of storage until early next week. From what he was told, Records is a mess and the guy that should know where it is is on vacation until Monday."_

"Why am I not surprised?"

" _Yeah. Look, I have a faculty dinner to go to tonight but I can get away for a couple of hours when it's over. I know it'll be late, but do you think you could meet me after that? I want to go to Pier 5 and have a look around. I know there's probably nothing to see but I just want to get a feel for the place, you know…?"_

"Of course, yeah. Why don't you call me when you finish with the dinner and I'll meet you there."

" _Great, will do. There won't be much traffic that time of night so it won't take me any time at all to get over the bridge. I'll call you."_

# # # # #

Pier 5, just north of the Bay Bridge, was just as it appeared: a large warehouse that in its heyday handled the goods from the large ocean-going cargo ships that steamed into the harbour, but was now unused and empty. It was pitch-black, cavernous and cold, and footfalls echoed eerily no matter how quietly one tried to walk.

Though the sawhorse barriers had been removed and there was no chalk outline, the unmistakable dark stain of dried blood was still visible on the grey concrete floor.

Steve stood staring at it, fists in his pockets. Flashlight in hand, Dan approached him from the far end of the elongated building. "Well, you could park a car or five back there and no one would see them. And there's not much foot traffic in this part of town after midnight, as you know." He looked around and sighed. "With all the doors closed, I don't think you'd hear anyone screaming for their lives in here."

Steve raised his head and let his eyes rake the huge building, too dim to see the walls. "Well, if you wanted to beat somebody to death and not have anybody know it, this is the perfect place," he said slowly and quietly. "Anything?"

Dan shook his head. "Nothing."

Steve let his breath out slowly and loudly. "Well, at least we've seen it. I don't know what I was hoping to find," he chuckled dryly.

"Evidence of a third party?" Dan offered helpfully, an understanding warmth in his voice.

"Yeah," Steve snorted with a laugh. "Wouldn't that have been nice?" He sighed loudly. "All right, let's get out of here before a squad car comes by and we have to explain ourselves."

# # # # #

It only took two days for Mike to pass through the 'Reception' process and assigned a lower bunk in a fifty-man dormitory. There was a school-size metal locker next to the bunk for his clothes, toiletries and limited personal effects, like his watch, reading glasses and a few photographs. He had been issued a combination lock.

Every prisoner was allocated to a job, from working in the kitchen or the laundry, the on-site garden, or off-site on road construction or roadside clean-up details. Because of the cast, Mike was restricted from doing manual labour so he was assigned to the library, where he could re-stock the books with his left hand.

By the end of the first week, he knew the location of almost every book and was well on his way to becoming an indispensible asset to the prison librarian.

Keeping a low profile was not a problem for the former police officer. He spoke very little and only when directly addressed so, despite his size and physical strength, he was quickly dismissed as a mild-mannered pushover of no consequence. He planned to keep it that way.

But the detective in him was alive and well. He studied every one of men he shared the dormitory with, dividing them into categories; those who could and would look after themselves, he paid no further attention. But there were those who were too timid and overwhelmed to function properly in the prison milieu and, of greater concern, those who would take advantage of them.

On Mike's third day in general population, two new inmates were moved into the dormitory. One of them immediately caught his attention: a thirty-something slightly built blond man whose gold wire-rimmed glasses made him look even younger.

Mike kept an eye on him in the line-up in the mess hall for dinner and during the 'free time' afterwards. The young man sat by himself in the back of the TV room, staring at everything but the TV through wide, frightened eyes. He looked like a sitting duck.

This one might need some special attention.

# # # # #

"Got it, finally!" Haseejian crowed over the phone and Steve pulled the receiver away from his ear.

"If you mean you got Cord's file, that's great," the criminology professor chuckled.

"You're damn right we got Cord's file. _Sergeant Phelps_ ," the Robbery sergeant continued snidely and Steve swore he could hear the italics, "finally got back to work and he found the file in, like, a half hour, even in all that mess they got over there. Somebody told me it's gonna be possible one day to have all that crap on a computer. You think they're gonna be able to do that eventually?"

Steve laughed. "Yeah, Norm, I do. Listen, ah, can you drop it on Dan's desk so he can bring it home tonight?"

"You got it. Hey, Healey and I both have this weekend off – you wanna put us to good use?"

"Let Dan and I go over Cord's file and I'll let you know, okay?"

"Sounds great."

"Thanks a lot, Norm. And thank Dan for me, will ya – for me and Mike."

"You got it, kid- ah, Steve…" Haseejian's voice faded guiltily and the younger man laughed.

"Have a good night, Norm." Steve was still chuckling when he hung up, looking at the receiver and unable to wipe the grin from his face. Haseejian had come so close to calling him 'kiddo' again.

And, if truth be told, he would've loved it.

# # # # #

The John Denver lookalike had a name, as Mike found out: Ryan Sheffield. Mike preferred _John Denver_ so that was the name that stuck in his mind. He was in for vehicular homicide. It was his third drunk driving arrest, but this time he had driven through a stop sign and t-boned a car, killing the 21-year-old female driver.

Funny, Mike mused as he stared at _John Denver_ across the mess hall, he didn't look like an habitual drunk driver. But then again, most of the time murderers didn't look like they could kill either.

 _I should hate him,_ Mike thought. After all, his victim was about Jeannie's age. But there was something disarmingly innocent in the young man that had touched the seasoned detective's heart. Maybe it was that first night, after lights out, when, although their bunks were a couple of rows apart, Mike could hear the young man softly crying.

They were in the line-up for dinner when Mike spotted what he thought was the first altercation between _J.D._ and a big ugly bruiser Mike had nicknamed _Sluggo._ He knew full well that the 'real' comic strip 'Sluggo' was actually 'Nancy's' best friend and not a bully, but the name did suggest otherwise.

So _Sluggo_ he became when the tall, thick-set, balding felon first made his presence known to the new arrivals with his intimidation tactic of pushing them out of the chow line and taking his place at its head. Mike had let him pass that first day, not wanting to cause trouble until he was very aware of the lay of the land and the characters that lived upon it.

And now _Sluggo_ was at it again. A few of the other inmates were not intimidated and, like most bullies, _Sluggo_ knew when to back off and not press his luck. But newbies like _J.D._ were like chum in the water and _Sluggo_ was a shark whose dorsal fin everyone could see.

But from the looks of things, _J.D._ was unschooled in the way of the bully and held his ground in the chow line. _Sluggo_ was not impressed. Using his tall frame and protruding but muscular gut, _Sluggo,_ whose age was at best indeterminate, backed the younger man into the wall, staring down at him with cold dark eyes and a vicious sneer that could peel the paint off a pick-up truck.

 _J.D._ stared back and a tense silence settled over the large mess hall. The atypical quiet alerted the guards and they pushed themselves away from their usual positions against the wall near the entrance and started towards the line-up.

Suddenly _J.D._ swallowed heavily and seemed to shrink even smaller, sliding slightly down the wall. Smiling triumphantly, _Sluggo_ took a step back then turned and swaggered into the still moving line towards the food counter. Several others followed, brushing past the humiliated young man, before _J.D._ found the strength to stand upright again and rejoin the line.

Mike had watched it all unfold from his seat at a table nearby. As he turned his attention back to the barely edible meal on the plastic tray in front of him, he knew this was a situation he was going to have to monitor. For despite his outward milquetoast appearance, _J.D._ was blessed, or cursed, with a streak of defiance that could either save him or get him killed.

Mike was praying for the former but anticipating the latter.

# # # # #

"This is quite the hefty little file," Dan grunted as he tossed the thick accordion folder onto the coffee table in front of Steve; it had been expanded as far as it could go. "It's a good thing I'm in shape."

The older man chuckled as he picked it up. "Well, our Leonard Cord was one of the true bad guys. The world's a lot better off without him, believe me, no matter who took him out."

They were back in Dan's living room, which was rapidly becoming their de facto 'war room'. Steve's apartment in Berkeley was just too inconvenient.

Dan had disappeared into the kitchen, re-emerging with two empty plates and some cutlery and paper napkins. Steve had stopped for take-out on his way across the Bridge, picking up a steak sandwich and fries for himself and a large Caesar with a sourdough roll for Dan.

The professor slipped two large files out of the folder then put it on the floor beside the chair. He put one file on the table, looking at the tab of the other. The date on the one in his hand was 1973.

Dan had reappeared with a can of Bud for Steve and Tab for himself. "Two files?"

Steve nodded with raised eyebrows. "Yeah, our boy was busy." As Dan sat on the couch, he handed him the file from the table. "That's from '61. Cord was eighteen when Mike arrested him for rape and murder."

"Ah, the catalyst," Dan said softly as he took the file and set it on his knee. He had already put two legal length yellow pads and some pencils on the coffee table; he picked up one of each and sat back.

Settling in, they opened their respective files and got to work. It was going to be a long night.


	11. Chapter 11

"Dear god, there's a lot of material in here," Dan sighed as he flipped the top page of the yellow pad and made another note on the crisp clean sheet underneath. "This list is getting so long it's gonna take us at least a month to go through all these names."

"Yeah, I can imagine. There aren't as many in this file, thank good-" Steve quit talking, staring at the papers in his hand.

Dan stopped writing and looked up, frowning. "What?"

"Hmmm?" Steve asked distractedly.

"What caught your eye?"

The older man shook his head sharply. "Oh, ah, nothing… just… I was remembering the night this all started. Mike was with Jeannie, she'd just come in on the bus, and I got the call about the murdered girl. I was the one that had to call Mike's house and let them know. It was like a nightmare."

"I bet."

"Yeah, but the real horror show started the next day, when Cord let us know he'd been following Jeannie. Mike got so freaked out… I had a hard time convincing him that Cord was after him and not Jeannie."

"What finally convinced him?"

"I don't think he really believed Cord was actually after him till it was all over." Steve sat silently for several long beats; Dan didn't move. "You know, Mike could've so easily killed Cord that night at the Palace and he would've gotten away with it too. He told me afterwards that Cord was begging him to shoot but he didn't. The better angels of his nature, I guess."

He glanced up to find Dan looking at him with a furrowed brow.

"Lincoln," Steve offered with a smile, "not me."

Dan snorted sardonically. "I knew it wasn't you, I just didn't know it was Lincoln." He paused and smiled. "But I like that; it's the perfect way to describe Mike. He always works that way, doesn't he? For the betterment of others."

"Sometimes even to the detriment of himself." They stared at each other for several long seconds.

"He really didn't do it, did he?" Dan asked softly and Steve smiled.

"No, Daniel, I really don't believe he did."

# # # # #

 _J.D._ was working in the laundry; _Sluggo_ , for some reason, was allowed off-site to man the road construction team. Mike was grateful that, during the day at least, they were kept apart. But run-ins at breakfast and dinner were escalating rapidly and nerves were beginning to fray.

Mike had tried to figure out what it was about _J.D._ that intensified the bullying propensities in the larger man. As far as Mike could tell, the slightly built milquetoast hadn't done anything to incur anyone's wrath. Sometimes it was just bad chemistry, and no amount of rumination would ever figure it out. It was pure, unfortunate fate, almost a preordained destiny. Bad karma, as the kids nowadays would put it.

 _J.D._ was towards the front of the line for dinner that night; Mike was about fifteen places behind. The line had not yet begun to move; dinner was slightly delayed. The off-site construction crew was late returning. They were always a rowdy and disruptive bunch until the guards could get them under control.

Everyone was standing quietly in line; _J.D._ was looking at his feet. Mike still hadn't approached the young man, hoping he would run into him in the library, but _J.D._ had not as yet shown a literary bent.

A crescendo of voices could be heard from the corridor and the dirty, sweaty men from the construction detail stormed into the hall. They had arrived back too late to shower before dinner; they were tired and hungry and a good number of them bulled their way towards the head of the line.

 _Sluggo_ was leading the way. He stopped in front of _J.D._ , who had kept his head down but was well aware of the presence of his nemesis. _Sluggo_ stared at him, waiting. When the smaller man didn't look up, he glanced around angrily. Everyone could see the fury building in his face.

Mike tensed, curling the fingers of his left hand into a fist. He knew he wouldn't be much help if a fight broke out, except maybe to use his cast as a cudgel.

 _Sluggo_ took a step closer to _J.D._ then glanced around furtively once more. The two guards were busy getting the line straightened out before dinner could be served. Sensing his opportunity, _Sluggo_ brought his hands up quickly and pushed _J.D._ into the wall. Not expecting the swift assault, the younger man's blond head snapped back and he cried out in pain, his glasses falling off as the back of his head was slammed forcefully into the hard surface.

"Hey, what's going on?" one of the guards yelled as they both ran over, pulling out their truncheons.

 _Sluggo_ took a step back and held up his hands. "Sorry, officer, I tripped and fell into him, that's all. It was an accident."

Mike watched the two large, veteran guards; one of them stepped between _Sluggo_ and _J.D._ , keeping his eyes on the younger man, gently raising his chin to stare into his eyes. "You okay, Sheffield?"

 _J.D._ nodded, putting his glasses back on. "I'm okay," he mumbled, trying not to make eye contact.

"What happened?"

His eyes ever so briefly sliding towards his tormentor, _J.D._ said softly, "He just stumbled, like he said. It was nobody's fault."

The guard continued to stare then slowly released his grip; _J.D.'s_ head went back down. The guard looked at his partner. They didn't believe him, of course, but nobody stepped forward to offer another explanation; no one, including Mike, wanted to exacerbate the already tense situation over something that was, essentially, insignificant in the bigger scheme of things.. The guards holstered their truncheons. "All right!" the first one yelled, "everybody back in line. And let's get it moving."

Glancing smugly over his shoulder, _Sluggo_ swaggered into the line several places in front of _J.D._ As Mike watched, _J.D._ 's head finally came up and he stared straight ahead, but in his eyes there was no longer fear and trepidation. They had been replaced by anger and hate.

# # # # #

"Okay, so, this is the current list of everyone employed at Quentin." Tanner held out a large manila envelope.

"Thank you, Bill," Steve said eagerly as he opened it and pulled out several typed sheets.

"I can't guarantee it's a hundred percent accurate, but it'll be pretty damn close. Now what do you want to do with it?"

"Well, my hunch is that Mike found out about Cord from someone at Quentin, as I sure as hell don't think he heard it from anyone at the CDOJ – they were paranoid because of the whole Johnson thing. Still are, I bet. No, I have a feeling he used one of his contacts, maybe someone who used to work for the Department."

"Hmmm, that's a good hunch. You want me to do it? And, how do you want to go about it?"

"Bill, my man, I would _love_ you to do it, thanks for offering." Steve laughed as Tanner rolled his eyes. "But seriously, man, I know how much time it's gonna take, and we're gonna have to keep it very low profile. We don't want to rat anybody out and put their job in jeopardy. I'm thinking we have to narrow this list down to possible candidates – there can't be _that_ many, right? And then I think we should contact each of the possibles one on one – no phone calls, a drop in at home. Look 'em in the eye when the question is asked. How does that sound?"

Tanner frowned then smiled. "Sounds like a lot of work, but work I really want to do. I already miss not having Mike in the office; I'm not about to believe that it could be permanent."

With a grin, Steve slapped his former colleague on the back. Things were starting to move and it felt good.

# # # # #

"Okay, Steve, I've narrowed it down to fourteen guys who work at Quentin now that were at one time in the department. Not all of 'em look good but there's four or five that I think are real possibilities. I've got their addresses and I'm ready to go this weekend. What do you think?"

" _Bill, that sounds great. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Look, I know Lee is tied up this weekend but I think Norm and Dan Healey are free. Why don't you give one of them a call?"_

"Gotcha. Sounds like a plan. What are you up to?"

" _Dan Robbins and I've compiled a list of everyone mentioned in both of Cord's files, from '61 and '73. I want to track everyone down – families of the victims, eyewitnesses, lawyers, judges, everyone – and see where they are now and if anyone carried a grudge against Cord. And that is going to take a lot of time. But the sooner we get started…"_

"Yeah… Hey, have you talked to Mike since he's been in? I know he's allowed phone calls, and I was just wondering if he's –"

" _Not me… at least not yet. I don't know if he's called Jeannie, but I'm sure she'd let me know if he did."_

"How do you think he's doing in there?"

" _You know Mike, he always lands on his feet… He'll be okay…but I still want to get him out of there sooner than later."_

"Yeah, me too."

# # # # #

Dan leaned back in the chair and stretched. "Oh, god, I think that phone is becoming a permanent part of my head." He worked his chin back and forth, listening to his neck crack and stifling a yawn.

"I know how you feel," Steve said from the desk a few feet away, glancing up from the notes his was making on the pad in front of him.

They were in the Homicide bullpen. It was widely known that Steve and the five detectives were doing extra-curricular duty in an attempt to prove, to themselves and the courts, that Mike was innocent and protecting someone else. So, after the first two weeks of working out of Dan Robbins' apartment or Dan Healey's house, they were approached by Captains Roy Devitt and Rudy Olsen with an offer they couldn't refuse: the use of the Homicide bullpen, its desks and phones, during off-hours and on weekends if space permitted.

They had jumped at the proposal, grateful for the support of their superiors. And with the tacit agreement and encouragement of people higher up the food chain that they were on the right track and that it might only be a matter of time until the charges against their friend and colleague were proven false and he would be released and pardoned, whether he wanted to be or not.

Steve glanced at his watch. "Look, it's getting late. Why don't we each make one more call and then call it a night? I have an early lecture tomorrow." They were working their way through the lists they had compiled from the two Cord files. As with the list of San Quentin employees, Steve wanted to interview the individuals on this list in person. It was going to take a lot of time and a lot of legwork, but if they could find something, some chink in the impenetrable self-imposed armour that was surrounding Mike at the moment, it would all be worth it.

"Yeah, I should be working on that floater we fished out of the Bay yesterday but Bernie hasn't been able to give us anything to work on yet except it was male and a full-grown adult. That really narrows it down."

Steve chuckled dryly, looking down once more at the list and the check marks beside the names that now had current addresses. Some names were crossed out; some people had died, others moved out of town or even out of state.

It was going to be a long and slow process.

# # # # #

Her eyes on the open page of one of the thick textbooks in front of her, Jeannie reached blindly for the cup across the wooden table, picking it up and bringing it to her lips. She grimaced; the coffee was ice cold. With a snort, she stared at the cup as if it was the offender, finishing a note on the pad near her right elbow before getting to her feet and crossing the short distance to the kitchen.

She dumped the cold coffee into the sink and reached for the carafe in the coffeemaker. She had just finished pouring when the wall phone rang. She put the carafe down and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

" _This is a collect call from an inmate at the California Correctional Institution, Tehachapi. Will you accept the charges?"_


	12. Chapter 12

Jeannie's knuckles turned white she was holding the receiver so hard. She tried to talk but couldn't find her voice. "Um, ah, yes… yes, I'll accept the charges." There was a loud click and then silence on the other end of the line. Then a mechanical voice filled her ear. "You have fifteen minutes for this call." There was another loud click and another ominous silence.

" _Jeannie?"_

"Mike? Mike, is that you?" Her mouth suddenly went dry and she tried to swallow.

" _Yes, sweetheart, it's me. Oh, it's so good to hear your voice. How are you?"_

Both hands gripped the receiver and her knees felt weak. "I'm fine… I'm fine. How are you?"

" _I'm good. My hand's still in the cast but other than that I'm fine. I've been told I need to keep it on for at least another week."_

"But you're okay…? You're doing okay…?"

" _I'm doing very well, sweetheart. It's really not so bad here. I'm in a dormitory with fifty other men and…"_

For the next twelve minutes, they just talked. He told her about the dormitory and some of the other inmates, about his duties in the library and the books he was intending to read. She told him about the work she was doing towards her doctorate and the exciting new lecturer who had joined the University of Washington architecture faculty.

The mechanical voice cut her off mid-sentence. "Two minutes."

The both fell silent for several seconds. "Mike," she said finally, "have you talked to Steve or Dan?"

There was a short uncomfortable pause then she could hear her father clear his throat softly. _"No, ah, I, ah, I just haven't felt up to it yet, you know… I, ah, I owe them both an apology for screwing up their lives,"_ he chuckled thinly, _"especially Dan."_

"He doesn't think that." Her voice was almost breathless as she tried to keep the heartbreak at bay.

" _Well, he can get on with his life now. Oh, do you know who they put in charge of Homicide?"_

"Roy. Well, for awhile anyway."

Mike chuckled. _"You're right there. He likes it behind a desk; he's been telling me that for years. But he'll do a good job."_

"One minute."

" _Look, sweetheart, I gotta go. Would it be okay if I called you again in a couple of days?"_ He was trying to sound casual but she knew better.

Her hands tightened around the receiver again and she bit her bottom lip, hoping her sudden trembling wouldn't be reflected in her voice. "Of course," she managed to get out, "of course."

" _Good… good. Um, what nights are good for you?"_

He knows this, she thought, he knows my schedule already. She caught her breath; he was desperate to keep the conversation going. "Um, ah, Tuesdays and Thursdays are the best… and Sunday. I'm always home on Sunday."

" _Okay, ah, that's, ah… that's great. I'll, ah, I'll go back to my bunk and write that down right away."_

"It's good to hear your voice, Mike."

" _Yours too, sweetheart."_

"I love you, Dad-" There was a loud click and the line went dead. Gripping the receiver to her chest, she fell back against the wall and slid slowly to the floor, tears coursing down her cheeks and her sobs filling the room.

# # # # #

Dan Healey got into the front passenger seat of the gold Ford Falcon, nodding to Bill Tanner behind the wheel. The notebook with the list of the fourteen San Quentin employees they needed to interview was on the seat between them. Healey picked it up.

"So, how many do you think we can get to today?" he asked, scanning the list.

"Well," Tanner said, starting the car and shifting into Drive, "I've got them listed in geographical order, starting with the ones who live in town here and working our way up towards Point Richmond. If we get through them all today, which'd be a stretch but I'd like to think we could, then that'll be our last stop. None of them live over the bridge. But I think a couple of 'em might be working today so we'll have to find out when they're off. Steve wants us to make sure we do this face-to-face."

Healey nodded, pursing his lips while he continued to study the list. "Well, for once a cold, wet day may work to our advantage. People have a habit of staying close to home on a wet Saturday." He put the list down and looked through the windshield at the wipers trying to keep up with the steady downpour.

# # # # #

Dan looked out the rain-streaked window. "I don't think it's ever going to stop raining," he groused quietly.

"What?" Steve asked, coming back into the younger man's living room with a fresh cup of coffee. They had decided to use Dan's home today; the inclement weather made the small apartment feel cozy and warm compared to the Homicide bullpen.

"Nothing," Dan mumbled, "just bitching about the weather. One day I can take, but three is beginning to test even my love of Mother Nature."

Chuckling, Steve sat on the sofa and picked up the pad of paper, studying it for several long seconds before announcing, "Okay, well, I only need three more addresses and then you and I can head out and start talking to people. What about you?"

"I'm just waiting on confirmation for one of them – the Fernandez's? They were the landlords for the apartment Cord was living in back in '61 when he first drifted into town."

"What's their connection again?"

"Well, from what I can make out from the notes in the file here, Mike thought that Cord had molested their twelve-year-old daughter but he couldn't prove it. Mr. Fernandez threatened Cord a couple of times during the first trial."

"Right, yeah. That puts him pretty high on our list, doesn't it? He and the father of the first murdered girl, Natalie Gershon. That family's still in town too."

Dan picked up his cup of herbal tea and took a sip. "Yeah, her father was almost out of his mind, if I'm reading between the lines of Mike's reports properly." He sighed heavily as he put the cup down. "I can't imagine what they went through."

Steve nodded in commiseration. "Same with Valerie Mercer's family. Her parents were divorced and she lived with her Mom and younger sister. The Dad wasn't in the picture; I think he lived back east somewhere. There was an older brother away at school at the time. After the funeral, her mom sold the house and moved out of town. They didn't even stay around for the trial, such as it was. It was just too painful for them."

"Where did they move to?"

"Philadelphia I think Jeannie said. I'll check with her but I don't think they're in our sights anyway. No woman could've beaten Cord to death, I don't care how big they were."

# # # # #

"Sorry, Steve, we didn't get a nibble." Healey was standing at a payphone just inside the door of a small Chinese restaurant in El Cerrito. Tanner was sitting at a table perusing the menu. "We managed to find just six of the fourteen on our list at home and nobody had any idea of what Bill and I were trying to get them to say. Hell, none of them said they knew who Mike was but a couple of them knew Cord. He was universally hated, from what I can tell."

"Nobody felt hinky?"

"Nope, not in this lot. And I think Bill and I are pretty good at reading hinky. We're gonna come back out here tomorrow and try to track down the rest of 'em. Sorry, Steve."

"Hey, don't worry about it, Dan. We all knew this wasn't going to be easy and hey, we might even be barking up the wrong tree here, who knows. Thank Bill for me, will ya, and the two of you get a good night's sleep."

"You too." Healey hung up and got back to the table just as the owner came to take their order.

# # # # #

Sundays were days off in the penitentiaries as well but no one slept in. Mike had taken a book ("Eye of the Needle") out of the library and hoped to spend most of the day reading.

Things had seemed to settle down between _J.D._ and _Sluggo_ over the last couple of days and Mike took that as a good sign. _J.D._ was still his quiet, solitary self, _Sluggo_ the preening jackass, but the escalating animosity had seemed to dissipate.

The mood in the mess hall was almost buoyant. The sun was shining and most of the men were eager to get out into the recreation yard and play a little b-ball or just take a walk in the sunshine and have a smoke. Even the guards were relaxed. Sunday was always an easy day. It was the Mondays you had to worry about.

Mike was standing about halfway back in the breakfast line-up. It actually smelled good this morning and he smiled to himself. He was still basking in the glow of the phone call with his daughter. He had dreaded making the call, not sure he would know what to say, but it had turned out much better than he had expected and he went to bed last night with a grin on his face that wouldn't go away.

He heard several men approach and push their way past: _Sluggo_ and a couple of his minions. _J.D._ was a lot closer to the front and that's exactly where the menacing trio stopped and began to push their way into the line.

 _Sluggo_ glanced at _J.D._ disdainfully with a low, mirthless chuckle as he stepped in front, forcing the smaller man to move back. Suddenly the big man took a quick large step backwards to usher his men into the line in front of him, knocking _J.D._ into the man behind. That man yelled in anger and shoved _J.D._ forward, who slammed into _Sluggo,_ who staggered slightly.

Everybody around them stopped moving. _Sluggo_ turned slowly, his eyes blazing fury, and glared at the younger man, who was once more staring at the floor. After several silent seconds, _Sluggo_ snorted derisively and rotated back as the line began to move.

Everyone relaxed.

Mike looked past the men in front of him towards the counter. The servers were actually smiling today and he could smell the bacon and pancakes. He had no idea why they were receiving this treat but he wasn't about to question it.

Suddenly a roar, like the cry of a wounded animal, filled the hall, followed closely by a wail, half surprise, half pain, that froze everyone in their tracks.

Mike's eyes immediately went back to the line ahead of him. _Sluggo_ was crumpling slowly to his knees, _J.D._ standing over him, his right arm rising and falling at an astonishing rate. Mike knew exactly what was happening.

The men around them began to scatter, and shouts filled the room in a panicked hysteria. _Sluggo_ was writhing on the ground, the back of his gray shirt now covered with blood; _J.D._ was standing over him, continuing to swing his arm, continuing to stab the now defenceless man at his feet.

A guard appeared from nowhere, unable to get his truncheon out in the confusion and frenzy – he'd never had to deal with something like this before. But he was bigger than _J.D._ and he wrapped his large muscular arms around the smaller man and drove him into the wall, hoping to dislodge the weapon in his hand.

As Mike watched, _J.D.'s_ head slammed into the wall, stunning him. The guard started to straighten up, the slight felon still wrapped in his arms, when Mike saw _J.D.'s_ right arm jerk again and before Mike could yell a warning, they all heard the 'ugh' of an unexpected violent exhale and the guard's eyes shot wide, stunned and uncomprehending.

 _J.D.'s_ arm kept moving rapidly back and forth; the floor was suddenly slippery with blood. As the guard's arms lost their grip and he started to slide to the floor, Mike broke away from the stunned gallery of onlookers and quickly came up behind _J.D.,_ grabbing him as best he could and spinning him around, pinning his arms to his sides.

"Ryan, Ryan, Ryan," Mike repeated over and over, trying to get through to the catatonic young man, praying that the second guard was bulling his way through the uncooperative crowd towards them.

 _J.D.'s_ stare was down and vacant, his body slack. Mike kept repeating his name, watching as the blond head came up and for the first time their eyes met. "Ryan, it's all over, son," he whispered gently, "it's all –"

Mike's eyes snapped wide as a breathtaking bolt of pain shot through the left side of his chest. He couldn't move. He vaguely saw the truncheon arc into focus just behind _J.D._ 's head, connecting with the young man's right temple with a chilling crack. The body dropped like a stone.

Mike staggered backwards, unable to breathe. He felt the wall against his back. He looked down, eyes widening as the tiny pinprick of blood on his shirt began to expand, spreading out in a growing circle with each beat of his heart.


	13. Chapter 13

He could feel his knees buckle and he slid to the floor. He couldn't breathe and his chest was on fire. Someone knelt in front of him but all he saw was a dark blur before his head fell forward, his chin on his chest. He tasted iron.

A large rough hand was suddenly on his forehead and his head was tilted back. Blood filled his mouth and he coughed. "Damn it," a deep baritone voice growled lowly then the dark complexioned face that was close to his pulled away slightly. "We've got a punctured lung here! We need the doc fast!"

The air was filled with shouting and he sensed frantic activity all around but his world seemed to be getting smaller and smaller as his vision began to fade and the sounds became muted and far away. He felt hands holding his arms and head, and he was lowered to the hard tile floor on his left side. He could vaguely feel his shirt being pulled open and pressure applied to his chest.

The pain was overwhelming but it no longer seemed to matter. He sensed lips close to his right ear and a voice valiantly trying to penetrate the fog. "Hang in there, man, you're gonna be all right…you just hang in there, buddy…don't die on us, you hear…the docs are on their way…just hang in there…"

# # # # #

Steve put the piece of toast into his mouth before picking up the pen to make a note on the pad on the table. Finished, he bit into the toast, dropping the rest of it on the small plate near his elbow. He glanced at his watch. 8:38.

"Damn it!" he growled under his breath as he stood, gathering all the files and papers on the table and stuffing them into the old leather satchel he had dug out of his closet. He was meeting Dan in the Homicide office at 9 and they were going to start contacting the people on their list. And now he'd lost track of time and was going to be late.

As he grabbed his jacket, overcoat and car keys, he prayed the traffic on the Bay Bridge would be light at this time on a rainy Sunday morning. He was halfway to the bridge when the phone in his apartment started to ring.

# # # # #

The heavy wooden door was pulled open and the round pleasant face of an older woman appeared. She smiled welcomingly as she opened the screen door.

"Mrs. Henry?" the thick-set detective asked, holding out his SFPD star and I.D. "I'm Sergeant Healey, this is Sergeant Tanner." He tilted his head towards his partner who was also displaying his credentials. Tanner's demeanor was open and friendly.

The woman nodded, frowning, but managed to retain her smile. "Yes, I'm Mrs. Henry. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"Is your husband at home?"

"Martin? He sure is. He's working out in the back shed. You can get there around the house to the left." She pointed in that direction.

"Thank you," Tanner nodded as they pocketed their I.D.'s and stepped off the small concrete front landing. She watched them turn the corner of the house. Neither detective was surprised that she didn't ask them what their visit was about; being married to a prison guard who was a former cop meant these types of calls were not altogether out of the ordinary. And, more than likely, if her husband wanted her to know, he would tell her.

They could hear the sound of a band saw coming from a small wooden shed in the backyard of the well-kept bungalow. The door was open. Martin Henry was standing over the small machine with his back to them. Healey knocked loudly on the open door and the older man's head, his eyes covered with safety goggles, spun in their direction.

He snapped off the saw, took off the glasses and turned towards them, his eyes taking in their I.D.'s. "Sergeant Tanner, Sergeant Healey," Tanner began conversationally. "Mr. Henry, do you have a couple of minutes to answer a few questions for us?"

Henry frowned slightly but shrugged and smiled. "Sure. What can I do for you fellas?"

Healey took a few steps into the shed, separating himself from Tanner. "You work in San Quentin?"

"Yeah, I've been there for eight years, ever since I left the force." His frown deepened and he dropped his head slightly, studying them. "But I'm sure you know that already. So… what is it you want to ask me?"

"Mr. Henry, do you know San Francisco Homicide Lieutenant Mike Stone?" Tanner asked without preamble.

Henry's head came up and the frown turned to confusion. "Yeah, I do. I worked on a couple of task forces with him years ago. Why?"

"Do you know who Leonard Cord is?" Healey asked and Henry's eyes snapped in that direction. Both detectives noticed the sudden apprehension that flashed briefly across the older man's face.

Henry knew he'd made a mistake. He tried to sound casual. "I might've heard of him. He's an inmate in Q, isn't he? In for murder, I think."

"That's right," Healey said quietly with a confirming nod. "Well, he _was_ in Q until a few weeks ago when they had to release him. And, as a matter of fact, he's dead now. Beaten to death in a warehouse on a pier in The City." He paused, watching the older man's eyes widen. "You didn't know that?"

Henry swallowed hard and looked at Tanner. "No… no, I didn't."

"Which part?" Tanner asked flatly. "The part about Cord being released or the part about Cord being dead?"

Henry looked back and forth between the two detectives, trying not to seem flustered. He was doing a terrible job of it. "Ah, neither of them…"

Healey looked at Tanner and smiled, then took a step towards the prison guard. "Mr. Henry, I think maybe we need go into your house and have a little chat. What do you say?"

# # # # #

All the sounds were muffled and his body felt heavy. He couldn't open his eyes. He thought he could hear beeping and what sounded like someone softly calling his name but he couldn't be sure. There was an unnatural pressure on the bridge of his nose and his chin and he thought he could feel a needle in his left forearm just below the elbow. His head rolled slowly towards the voice but he still couldn't get his eyes to open.

He tried to move but pain shot through the left side of his chest and he gasped involuntarily. He felt a hand on his right shoulder, warm against his bare skin, holding him down and the voice started to coalesce into words he could understand. "Don't move, Mike, don't move. You're okay. You just need to lie still."

He didn't recognize the voice but the words were calm and comforting and he complied. He tried to lift his right hand but the heavy cast proved too much and it dropped back down onto the bed. He could feel something hard and unyielding around his left wrist. Metal against metal clanged when he moved his hand and he groaned.

"Take that off him," he heard the voice command and someone else approached the left side of the bed. His forearm was lifted and he could faintly hear what sounded like a lock being opened. The handcuff was removed from his wrist and he slowly dragged his left hand to his belly. He ran his fingers over his stomach; there was a small bandage taped to his skin just below the ribs on his left side.

"Mike, can you open your eyes for me, please?" The voice was coming from someone leaning over the bed above him. He tried to follow the order and managed to open the lids a slit.

"That's it," the voice said encouragingly, "that's it. Good. Mike, I'm Warden Kennedy. We haven't met yet. You were stabbed during that, ah… altercation in the mess hall this morning. But don't worry, you're gonna be okay. They had to put a tube in your chest to get the blood out of your lung but they didn't have to operate. You'll need to rest and take it easy for a while but you're gonna be okay."

There was a soft knock on the door and the guard standing nearby opened it. Someone Mike didn't recognize and really couldn't see stuck his head in the door. Kennedy got up from the side of the bed and approached the newcomer.

Mike closed his eyes again, floating, but he could hear snatches of what was being said at the door.

"…called but there was no answer… message… do you want me..?"

"…note in his file… leave it like… him decide when he wakes up a little…"

Kennedy closed the door and stepped back to the bed. He looked up at the guard and shook his head. "You can leave the cuffs off, he's not going anywhere."

# # # # #

"Bingo!" Healey yelled into the receiver. "We got him, Steve – Mike's contact at Quentin! We got him!"

" _You're kidding! Already?! Well done! Who is it?"_

"His name is Martin Henry and he was on the force up until about eight years ago. He left before you joined Homicide so there's no reason you'da ever met him. Worked Missing Persons and a couple of cases, task forces really, with Mike years ago."

" _And he copped to tipping Mike off about Cord?"_

"More than that even. Look, I'll fill you in on the details when we get together. It's been a long day, but we can knock that little mystery off our list. How about you guys?"

" _Dan and I caught up with four people on our list but got nowhere. They're clean. But we still have a hell of a lot of names to eliminate so I'm gonna need you and Bill to give us a hand."_

"No problem, 'cause Bill and I feel like we're on a roll. This one was easy!"

" _Don't get too cocky, my man. Listen, it's been a long, wet weekend for all of us. Dan and I are still at the Hall but we're gonna head home soon. Let me get in touch with everybody tomorrow during the day sometime and we can figure out when we're all free to put our heads together again. How does that sound?"_

"Sounds like a plan. You guys get a good night's sleep – I know Bill and I will!"

# # # # #

It was very dark and he was very tired when Steve finally opened his front door. It felt good to be home, and with good news finally. The first step in the long journey to get Mike Stone out of prison had been taken, and that felt good too.

He hung up the wet raincoat and tossed his jacket onto a nearby chair before heading into the kitchen and grabbing a beer from the fridge. Popping the tab, he returned to the living room, crossing to the telephone answering machine. It was flashing _'6'_.

He pressed the play button before collapsing onto the couch, leaning back, putting his feet on the coffee table and taking the first refreshing sip of beer.

The small cassette tape rewound with a metallic whir and a loud click before it started to play. The first two messages were from students, the third from a comely young woman he had met the day before while waiting for his lunch order in an SF deli; he had given her his university business card. He smiled as he picked up the small pad and pen lying near the machine and jotted down her name and number.

The fourth message started. _"Steve, it's me._ " Jeannie's voice was unmistakable; she sounded happy and excited. _"He called! Mike, he called me last night. Oh my god, he sounded good, really good. We talked for fifteen minutes! Listen, why don't you give me a call when you have the chance and I'll tell you all about it."_

The message ended. Steve took a deep breath and exhaled loudly through a grin; he couldn't believe how relieved and thrilled he was, for Jeannie and for them all.

The fifth message started. _"Mr. Keller, this is Deputy Warden Harrison from the California Correctional Institution at Tehachapi. Um, there was an incident at the prison this morning and Michael Stone has been admitted to the Tehachapi Hospital. If you could give me a call, I can give you more details. My number is 661-822-4408. Thank you."_

The message ended and the sixth one started, but Steve didn't hear it. He had already shot to his feet and grabbed his jacket and keys. Not even taking the time to pull the already wet raincoat from the closet, he was out the front door and halfway to his car before the innocuous inquiry from another bewildered student ended and the cassette rewound, ready for the next call.


	14. Chapter 14

The beeping was the first thing he heard, comfortingly regular. The pressure was gone from his nose and chin, replaced by the mildly irritating sensation of a nasal cannula, but the IV line remained in his left forearm. His body still felt heavy but he fought against the lethargy to open his eyes.

A face he didn't recognize was hovering over the bed. With a firm nod, the dark-haired young man stood and headed for the door; he was wearing a prison guard's uniform. He opened the door and stuck his head out into the corridor.

A few seconds later, a gray-haired man with a bushy mustache entered the room and crossed directly to the left side of the bed. He smiled warmly. "Hi, Mike. I doubt very much you remember me from last night but I'm Warden Kennedy," he chuckled genially, slipping his hand into Mike's and squeezing.

The former detective opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He tried to take a deep breath but the pain was too much and he gasped.

"Take it easy," Kennedy said soothingly, increasing the pressure on the injured man's hand. "You were stabbed in the left lung and they had to use a chest tube. You're gonna be sore for a few days so you just need to lie there and take it easy."

The blue eyes that looked back at him softened with relief and gratitude. Kennedy released the hand, pulling a nearby stool closer. Before he sat, he turned back to the man on the bed. "I need to talk to you for a bit. Do you want me to raise the bed a little?"

Mike nodded and Kennedy picked up the hand pendant, looking for the right button to push to elevate the head of the bed. "Ah, there it is," he mumbled to himself with a smile and pressed the button. The bed rose about thirty degrees. "There. Is that comfortable?"

Mike nodded again, taking the opportunity to look down at himself. A light blanket was pulled up to his waist; there were four heart monitor pads attached to his chest, their wires coming together and disappearing over his right shoulder. There was a small bandage just below the ribs on the left side of his chest; he knew there was another bandage between the ribs on his left side from the tube. All in all, he thought, he didn't look that bad.

He felt like hell.

Clearing his throat slightly and carefully, he looked at the warden. "How are the others?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

Kennedy looked at him, his bushy eyebrows knitting in a sympathetic frown. "Not too good, I'm afraid. Paul Hunter, the guard, well, he's in critical condition. He was stabbed six times in the belly. He's hanging in there but the doctors aren't too optimistic. He'll have a long slow recovery ahead of him if he survives the next 72 hours, we've been told." Kennedy stopped and took a deep breath, trying to get a grip on his emotions. "He has a wife and three little kids. I really hope he makes it. And, from what I've heard, if he does, he'll have you to thank. Sheffield could have finished him off while he was on the floor if you hadn't grabbed him." He finished quietly, staring at the injured man with a grateful smile.

Mike looked away, closing his eyes. Kennedy sat quietly, waiting for the older man to digest the news and the praise before he continued.

The obviously shaken warden swallowed heavily then took a deep breath. "The inmate who was attacked, John Bochner… he has a chance to make it, but if he does, he'll be a partial paraplegic. He was stabbed eleven times in the back and one of them did some damage to his spinal cord. They're not sure how much yet but, if he survives, they think he's probably going to have some paralysis. He's going to be in here for quite awhile regardless but if nothing goes wrong with his recovery, he could eventually be back at CCI, unfortunately." Kennedy's eyes widened. "Um, what I mean is, he was the instigator in all this, from what I've learned. He's like the bad apple in the bunch," he explained hurriedly.

Kennedy cocked his head at Mike and smiled slightly, sadly. Into the silence that followed, Mike whispered, " _Sluggo._ "

The warden frowned, inclining his head. "What?"

Mike managed a slight smile of his own. "I didn't know his name, so I just called him _Sluggo_ … to myself…"

"From the comic strip?"

Mike nodded and the warden chuckled.

"You know, that fits." Kennedy's features turned serious. "Ryan Sheffield, the young man who caused all this…? He has a fractured skull and he's in a deep coma, I'm afraid. The doctors don't think he's going to survive."

Mike closed his eyes, his head sinking back into the pillow. He took several breaths as deep as he dared; his bottom lip quivered and he swallowed heavily before he opened his eyes again. "I should've known. I could see it coming…I should've known."

Kennedy laid a hand on his forearm. "It wasn't your responsibility. And you know what they do in prisons, even medium security prisons, to people who stick their nose in where it doesn't belong. It wasn't your fight. Up until yesterday, it really wasn't your fight, Mike. But thank god you _were_ there, because it could've been a helluva lot worse if you weren't."

Mike was looking down, expressionless. When he didn't respond, Kennedy patted his arm and sat back slightly. "Listen, ah, before we allow anyone in to see you, you're going to have to answer some questions from the local police about what happened." The warden stared at him for a beat then smiled. "I finally got a chance to read your file. I know who you are. So you, ah, you know the routine, so to speak." He nodded over his shoulder. "There's a couple of Tehachapi detectives waiting out there. Is it okay if I let 'em in?"

Mike stared at Kennedy for a long beat before he nodded. Kennedy was halfway out the door before the words sunk in. "Wait," Mike called after him, the volume of his voice hampered by the discomfort in his chest, "someone's here to see me?"

But the warden was already gone.

# # # # #

He had driven all night, stopping once for gas just outside Tracy on his way down the 580 towards the I-5, and then again outside Bakersfield to buy a map of Tehachapi. He had pushed his luck as well as the Porsche, and was fortunate that the highway cops were nowhere to be found. With the needle hovering around 120 the entire way, he'd made the trip in under five hours, reaching the Tehachapi Hospital a little after four in the morning.

He had turned the radio up as he drove, constantly switching channels as they came and went on the dial, listening to rock & roll, country & western, talk and, for a short stretch, an evangelical preacher – anything… anything to keep his thoughts from going to the darker corners.

An _incident,_ the deputy warden had said in the message. From experience he knew that an _incident_ in a prison that sent an inmate to the hospital was, more often than not, a severe beating or a stabbing with a handmade shiv. And Mike had been _admitted_ , not just 'taken' or 'checked out' _._ Those two words, used in that context, could only mean one thing. The realization made his blood run cold.

The Porsche squealed to a stop in the first open space he found on the street in front of the huge single floor beige building. Grabbing his coat and slamming the door, he sprinted across the street to the front entrance, pulling open the glass door as he shrugged the coat on.

Adjusting his collar and cuffs, he crossed to the information counter and within seconds was directed down the hall to his right. He walked as quickly as he could, trying to keep his footfalls from echoing in the empty, semi-dark corridors.

Despite the very early hour, there was a small group of men and women, some in uniform, in the larger than expected waiting area. Steve entered the room almost at a jog, pulling to a stop quickly, his eyes scanning the faces, looking for the person he thought was in charge. Every head spun in his direction; it was too early in the morning for visitors and everyone was suddenly on alert. An older, grey-haired man in a policeman's uniform with the insignia of a high rank crossed the floor towards the newcomer.

"Can I help you?"

Steve cleared his throat, hoping his voice wasn't trembling as he glanced at the many pairs of eyes taking him in. "Um, I'm Steve Keller, I'm here to see Mike Stone. I was told he was admitted here yesterday."

A tall sandy-haired man around his own age separated himself from the others and approached, holding out his hand. "Mr. Keller, I'm Deputy Warden Harrison. I'm the one who called you." Steve shook his hand as Harrison continued quickly, "You got here fast. I'm sorry if I… scared you. I had assumed you would call me back."

Steve cocked his head with a grim smile. "I used to be a cop, and Mike's partner. When I hear the words _incident_ and _admitted to the hospital_ , I always think the worst. How is he?"

Harrison's eyes had widened and his grip on Steve's hand tightened briefly before he let it go. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I should have been more – he's going to be fine. There was a… a fight in the mess hall yesterday morning, one inmate attacked another and then a guard. Mike was stabbed in the chest when he intervened and pulled the attacker away."

Steve inhaled sharply, his eyes boring into Harrison's.

"He suffered a punctured lung but he's okay. They didn't need to operate, they just had to put a tube in his chest for a few hours. And we've even heard he could be out of here by the end of the week."

Steve brought a hand to his face, dropping his head and briefly covering his eyes. He inhaled raggedly, in relief, taking a step back. He looked at Harrison. "Can I see him?"

Harrison shook his head reluctantly. "You can, but I'm afraid it won't be for awhile. He's still asleep and when he does wake up, the warden needs to see him first and then he'll have to be interviewed by the local police. He's the only victim of the attack that's conscious and we need to find out what happened yesterday. The, ah, the rest of our eyewitnesses have been a little less than cooperative, as you can imagine." He finished with a small wry smile.

Steve nodded in grudging acceptance; he knew all about rules and regulations.

"Listen, ah, I'm sure you drove all night to get here. Why don't you take a seat and relax and I'll get one of the patrolmen here to go get you a coffee and maybe something to eat while you wait. How does that sound?"

# # # # #

Steve had been sitting in the waiting room for over four hours, watching the comings and goings of prison and police personnel. Harrison had introduced Kennedy to him when the warden had arrived, and they had spoken briefly before the older man was summoned down the corridor, to Mike's room Steve assumed.

When the warden returned to the waiting room several minutes later, he approached two men in dark suits that Steve had been told were the Tehachapi detectives who were waiting to talk to Mike. The three then disappeared back down the corridor.

The university professor stretched, sliding down on the seat. He closed his eyes and let the back of his head rest against the back of the chair. It had been over 24 hours since he'd had any sleep, and the long drive and the worry hadn't helped.

He wasn't sure if he had slept or not when he felt a tap on his right shoulder and his eyes snapped open. He shook his head and sat up quickly. "Ah, sorry." His voice was gravelly and he cleared his throat.

Harrison was looking down at him with a smile. "No worries, you obviously needed the shut-eye. So, you want to see your old partner?"

Steve's eyes widened slightly. "Yes, I do," he said gratefully as he scrambled to his feet then followed the deputy warden down the corridor.

# # # # #

Mike was exhausted; the Tehachapi detectives had been with him almost an hour. With Kennedy in the room, he had told them all about the building feud between Ryan Sheffield and John Bochner, beginning the day the former had arrived at the medium security facility. He told them of the intimidation and humiliation that Sheffield had had to endure and how he had thought, erroneously, that things had calmed down a bit.

The detectives had assured him, as Kennedy had earlier, that there was nothing he could have done, and that though this was not a common occurrence at CCI, it was also not an aberration. And they and Kennedy had lauded him for the action he had taken, putting his own safety in jeopardy to try to save others.

He wished it made him feel better.

Wishing him well and a speedy recovery, they had left just moments ago. Spent, he let his head drop back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. The ache in his chest had been exacerbated by all the talking he'd had to do, and he rested his left hand on the bandage below his ribs.

He heard the door open slowly; the murmur of voices, the gentle slap of footsteps, the squeak of a faulty gurney wheel all drifted in from the busy corridor. Someone stepped into the room and the door shut gently, taking the sounds with it as it closed.

After a few silent seconds, and with a confused frown, Mike slowly opened his eyes. He inhaled sharply, trying not to gasp. He'd forgotten what Kennedy had told him. And in that unguarded moment he couldn't prevent the look of pure joy, shock and love that flashed across his face.


	15. Chapter 15

Mike sat back, pushing his shoulders into the mattress, trying to erase the smile, but his eyes and the increased frequency of the beeps from the heart monitor gave him away.

Steve stood just inside the closed door, his hands in his pockets, his face expressionless, but his trained gaze had quickly taken in the two small bandages on the left side of his old friend's chest, as well as the heart monitor, the IV and oxygen lines, and the smile. He managed to control a sigh of relief; Mike looked better than he had expected.

"You… got here fast," Mike cleared his throat, trying to sound casual.

"The deputy warden called me sometime yesterday but I didn't get the message till last night. I drove straight here."

Mike swallowed heavily. He knew what that meant; the bleary eyes and stubble told him the younger man had driven through the night. The back of his throat tightened and he pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth to suppress the involuntary catch of his breath. He exhaled loudly then frowned. "Why, ah… why did he call _you_? Jeannie should be listed as my next of kin."

Steve took a couple of steps closer to the bed, maintaining a good distance between them. He shrugged and tilted his head. "I talked to Jack Fowler just after the sentencing hearing. I asked him to put a note in your file. In case anything happened to you while you were… inside, I wanted to be notified first. And then I would decide how and when Jeannie would be told." He stopped and looked down, suddenly unsure if his decision had been the right one. "I wanted to spare her getting bad news from someone who was just… relaying information…"

There was a moment of silence then Mike said quietly, "I'm glad you did. It, ah, it never even crossed my mind."

The younger man's head came up and their eyes met, the blue ones warm and grateful. "You probably had a few other things on your mind," he said lightly, a slight smile on his lips.

"Yeah, I guess I did."

Steve nodded towards Mike's chest with his chin. "I see he got you pretty good."

The older man looked down at himself then tilted his head and raised his eyes. "I guess I was lucky he just got my lung and not my heart… or we wouldn't be having this conversation." They shared an uncomfortable moment of silence then he continued, "But I got off a lot luckier than the other guys, that's for sure."

"I heard," Steve said almost casually, taking his hands out of his pockets as he stepped to the left side of the bed and dropped down onto the tall stool that was already there. "Word has it both the attacker and the guard may not make it."

"Yeah." Mike's voice was barely above a whisper. "Wait, they told you what happened?"

Steve shook his head, raising his eyebrows. "Not really, but I was the only one in the waiting room that wasn't from the prison or the PD and they were talking pretty freely. I think I'm almost up to speed on everything that happened… including what you did…"

Mike looked at him sharply. "You mean what I didn't do." He dropped his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes.

"What are you talking about?"

The older man inhaled deeply then caught his breath with a wince and a gasp. He grabbed his chest with his left hand, breathing shallowly until he got the pain under control. He felt Steve's hand on his forearm. "I'm okay," he assured quietly when he finally opened his eyes.

"What did you mean, what you didn't do?"

Mike told him about noticing Sheffield the first day he arrived, how out of place the kid was, that he was a sitting duck for the bullies and, literally, anyone else up the prison food chain who thought they could get away with intimidation. Menacing is contagious, and nowhere moreso than in a penal institution where power and privilege are at a premium and balance on a very thin edge.

"I should have seen it coming, Steve. The escalation. I knew it was happening and I did nothing to stop it…" Mike's voice faded away. He was looking down, his eyes unfocused. "Maybe I thought _J.D._ had a longer fuse, or I hoped _Sluggo_ would lose interest. But I read them wrong… both of them. And when it exploded yesterday, it caught me off-guard as much as it caught everybody else.

"But I don't have an excuse. I'm trained to read people, and I always thought I was pretty good at it… I guess maybe I've lost my touch…"

Steve leaned forward and tightened his grip on his friend's arm. "I don't think you lost your touch. Hell, you're in prison for manslaughter and you've been here less then a month. Anybody would be off their game. What happened yesterday is in no way, shape or form your fault, in anybody's eyes, especially that bunch out there." He nodded over his shoulder towards the door. "Believe me, nobody mentioned anything about that attack being your fault. As a matter of fact, I know that they think what you did yesterday went above and beyond."

Mike stared into the green eyes, wanting to believe what his young friend was saying but not quite there yet.

Steve squeezed Mike's arm again and smiled. "I'm just glad you came out of it just slightly… aerated…" His smile escalated into a full-blown grin and he laughed. "Hero…"

His eyes narrowing, Mike set his jaw. His stare was a mixture of gratitude and miff. "I knew you were gonna say that."

Steve continued to grin then his look turned serious. "I'm glad you're okay."

Mike nodded, swallowing hard. He tried a small smile. "So am I. Uh, do me a favor, will ya? Keep this to yourself. I don't want Jeannie knowing about this. She'll worry herself sick about me for the next three years." He saw the brief flash of anger in the younger man's eyes but chose not to acknowledge it. "Please?"

Reluctantly Steve nodded. "I won't tell her. I'll keep it to myself." He sat back, watching as Mike allowed his head to fall back onto the pillow with a relieved and satisfied smile. His eyes travelled to the beaten-up and dirty cast on the older man's right hand. "I see you've still got that on," he said, gesturing towards it with his chin.

Mike raised his right hand and looked at it. "Oh god, yeah. I should be getting it off soon, I hope."

Steve realized that what he had thought was dirt was actually dried blood. He suppressed a shudder.

"This damn thing is one of the reasons I couldn't grab _J.D._ yesterday." Mike sounded angry.

The younger man's brow furrowed. "You keep talking about _J.D…_. and, ah, what was it… _Slaggo_? Who are they?"

" _Sluggo,"_ Mike corrected automatically then froze and rolled his eyes. With a long-suffering sigh, he chuckled deeply. "I didn't know anybody's name when I first got here and, to be perfectly honest, I didn't want to. I guess I thought it would really mean I was in here for the long haul if I knew – I don't know…" He almost sounded angry with himself then he took a deep breath, winced slightly, and continued in a calmer vein.

"I was keeping tabs on everybody in my dorm. There are fifty guys in there and they run the gamut, believe me. I was particularly interested in the milquetoasts and the bullies. And boy, I found them. It wasn't very hard."

"Those two yesterday at the top of each list, I'm assuming?"

Mike chuckled dryly. "The very top, both of 'em. So, not knowing their names, I had to call them something in my own mind and the young nebbish –"

"The guy who did all the damage yesterday?"

"Yeah, well, he looked, to me anyway, like that John Denver guy that Jeannie likes so much. I remember seeing his picture on the album covers. So I started calling him John Denver and then shortened it to J.D."

Steve nodded with an approving facial shrug. "That makes sense. But _Sluggo?_ "

"Think about it. The guy's a bully, right? You're probably too young to remember but there used to be this comic strip in the newspaper called –"

" _Nancy."_

Mike cocked his head, frowning. "Yeah, how do you know? That's an old strip from back in the –"

"It's still running today."

"What?"

"It's still being published today, every day. I think it might be in Chronicle, I'm not sure…"

"Jeez, I thought it disappeared years ago." Mike chuckled to himself, surprised at the news. "Anyway, the lead character Nancy had a –"

"Friend named Sluggo. Yeah, I know. But Sluggo wasn't a bully."

"I know that. But the name does lend itself to that conclusion, does it not?" Mike was beginning to have fun with the conversation and Steve smiled warmly. The older man noticed and snorted. "Anyway, I christened my bully _Sluggo._ " The seriousness of the situation came back to him and he sobered. "Damn it," he continued quietly, "I don't want any of them to die."

"Well, it's out of your hands now, Michael. You did everything you could."

Mike closed his eyes, sinking back onto the pillow. Steve could see how exhausted he was; he patted the older man's arm and started to get to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Mike asked without looking.

"I thought I'd let you get some sleep; you look like you need it. And if I'm gonna stay the night I gotta get myself checked into a motel."

Mike opened his eyes. "Don't you have classes to teach?"

"I left a message this morning for one of my colleague's to sub for me today. He can do it tomorrow too."

The older man stared at him through narrowed eyes. "Look, ah, you have a responsibility to those kids of yours. I'm all right. You've seen so yourself. I'm really happy and… touched that you came, but I'm okay. So do me a favor, will ya, and go home? For me, please."

Steve's brow furrowed as he met the blue stare evenly. He knew he was being dismissed but he felt no anger, just a deep sense of loss. Mike really seemed resigned to his fate and his future. "This isn't over, you know," he said firmly.

It was Mike's turn to furrow his brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I still don't believe that you beat Leonard Cord to death, and what happened here," he gestured at the bandages on Mike's chest, "that just proves my point. You haven't got it in you to beat a man to death, even a degenerate like Cord." Mike didn't move. "You've been lying from the very beginning, from the moment that black-and-white showed up at the pier, and you're still lying… I know you are. I just don't know why."

Mike's expression was a study in calm and cool detachment; he was not going to rise to the bait. "But I'm here, aren't I? It's over, it's a done deal, Steve."

"Convictions can be overturned, you know that. Hell, you've overturned a couple yourself, and I know that." He took several steps towards the door before turning back. "This _isn't_ over, Mike. Not by a long shot. I'm not going to stop until I find out who you're protecting, who really killed Cord."

"Let it go, Steve, please. It's only three years… I can do three years."

"And then what? What will you come home to? No career, no pension, no house –"

"I won't lose the house," Mike almost yelled, wincing from the pain the exertion caused and they both stopped. After a few long uncomfortable seconds, he pleaded softly, "Please, Steve, let it go… for everybody's sake, just let it go…"

Steve shook his head. "I can't." Mike sighed in frustration. "I can't and I won't." He began to pull the door open then stopped and looked back at the bed. "Oh, ah, Martin Henry says to say hi."

As he disappeared through the door, Mike's eyes widened. He dropped his head back onto the pillow and looked at the ceiling. "Damn it!" he breathed.


	16. Chapter 16

He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his hands started to cramp. He let them both relax, taking his right hand off the wheel and flexing his fingers then shaking his wrist. He sighed in frustration.

Before hitting the highway for the long trip back to Berkeley, he had pulled into the first rest stop on the I-5 near Bakersfield, found a quiet back corner of the parking lot and taken a nap in the car. He didn't relish falling asleep behind the wheel and he was determined to make the drive in one fell swoop.

Anger was the catalyst that would keep him awake, he knew; an anger that had been building since he'd left the Tehachapi Hospital. As relieved as he was to find his former partner safe and on the mend, he was equally as frustrated with Mike's continuing silence, and outright deception, about the events the night Leonard Cord was battered to death.

He knew in his soul that his mentor and best friend didn't do it, but unless and until he could figure out who did, Mike Stone could spend up to three years in that prison. Less than a month in and he'd already been stabbed. What were the odds he would survive the full sentence if word got out that he was a disgraced police detective?

He glanced at his watch. Making a mental calculation, he figured he would be home just after dinner. Plenty of time to call Dan Healey and get more details about the information he and Bill Tanner had obtained from the San Quentin guard.

Mike's split second reaction to hearing Martin Henry's name was exactly what he had wanted to see. It corroborated everything he had felt in his gut, and it gave him renewed hope.

He glanced at the speedometer then pressed a little harder on the pedal. The needle slid closer to the 90 mark and he crossed his mental fingers in the hopes the highway patrol weren't lying in wait further up the road.

# # # # #

Mike stared at the ceiling for a long time after his former partner left, his mind reeling. _How the hell had he found out about Martin Henry?_

He could hear the rapid beeps from the heart monitor and willed himself to calm down; he didn't want the hospital staff to think he was having a medical emergency.

Taking breaths as deeply as he dared and grateful for the oxygen flowing through the cannula, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, he managed to slow his heart rate. He closed his eyes, allowing his limbs to lie heavily on the half-raised bed, Steve's visit having drained what little energy he'd had when he awoke.

He heard the door open but this time a voice reached his ears immediately, and it was not Steve's. "How are you feeling, Mr. Stone?" a bright male voice cut through the silence. He opened his eyes to see a young blond resident standing over him. He vaguely remembered seeing him at some point but he couldn't remember exactly when.

"Mike," he said weakly with a friendly smile. "Call me Mike."

"Mike, of course, yeah – you told me that when they brought you here yesterday morning, as they were taking you out of the ambulance. I remember that!" A pleasant chuckle accompanied the words. "You can call me Dr. Pete – or just Pete if you like." He raised a medical clipboard and looked at the paper on the top. "So, Mike, you're doing great, better than we'd hoped at this stage. But we're still gonna keep you in for awhile, probably till the end of the week."

He slammed the clipboard closed and looked across the bed. "If you feel up to it, how about we roll you over to x-ray right now and take a picture of that hand of yours? I have a feeling we might be able to take that cast off today. What do you think?"

As tired and troubled as he was, Mike managed a low chuckle and a smile. "I'd like that very much, Doc-… Pete."

# # # # #

"Please apologize to Bonnie for me, will ya?" Steve said with a smile as he poured sugar into his coffee. He and Dan Healey were sitting in a booth in the back of a North Beach diner.

Steve had stopped at his Berkeley apartment briefly to grab a quick shower and shave, change clothes and call the San Francisco detective to arrange a meeting. He knew he wouldn't get to sleep for hours after the events of the day, so he wanted to put them to good use. Healey was more than amenable to the late night rendezvous.

"Hey, she understands," Healey replied with a warm laugh, "she's a cop's wife, right?" He frowned as he watched the younger man stir then take a sip of his coffee. "Since when did you start using sugar?"

"Tonight," Steve said with raised eyebrows as he put the cup down. "It's been a long day and I need the rush."

"Obstreperous students?" Healey asked with a laugh.

"Something like that. So, what was it you and Bill found out from Martin Henry?"

"Well, it's not too much. I coulda told ya about it over the phone if you wanted the information so badly. I thought we were gonna wait till we could all get together?"

"I know, I know, but… " Steve stopped himself and looked down at the table, wrapping both hands around the hot mug. It had stopped raining finally, but a damp cold was permeating every nook and cranny of The City, it seemed. Everyone knew a heavy fog would be rolling in overnight. He looked at Healey from under a lowered brow. "Dan, I know now more than ever that Mike was lying. He didn't kill Cord. And I know it. And now we just have to prove it. And what you and Bill found out about Martin Henry? Well, that's the beginning. It's only the first step, but we're gonna do it. And I didn't want to hear about it over the phone. I wanted you to tell me personally, because if there's one thing I know about all this… it's personal."

Healey had listened without moving, without blinking. The love and loyalty that this young man continued to show towards his former boss, partner and mentor was truly remarkable. His broad smile built slowly and he nodded. "Yeah, I can understand that." He inhaled raggedly, trying to swallow the lump in the back of his throat.

"Well, you were right about Mike having a contact in Quentin. Henry said that about two months after Cord was admitted, he got a call from Mike. He wanted them to meet. Henry said he had no idea what it was all about; he and Mike hadn't been close. They had just worked on the same task force a couple of times, never even gone out for a beer together. And Henry had just started at Quentin; he'd only been there a few months.

"They met in a diner in Oakland; Mike figured no one would know them there. And he told Henry about Cord, about what he had done in '61 and what he was in Q for again. Mike knew Henry had a niece who had been raped and almost killed back east; Henry didn't know how Mike knew but he did, and he also knew Henry would understand Mike's… concern.

"So Mike asked him for a favor… nothing illegal. But Mike just wanted Henry to keep tabs on Cord, to let him know if he was moved to another prison or, god forbid, up for parole or release. I mean, you know, stranger things have happened." Healey stopped and took a sip of his coffee. Steve's eyes hadn't left his face.

"Every month Mike would put $25 in an envelope and send it to Henry and his wife. All these years. Well, it finally paid off. _We_ may not have heard about Cord getting released because of that clerical error, but Henry did, and he called Mike." He paused and let the information sink in. "He says that's all he knows… and I believe him."

Steve sat back in the booth, looking down, his gaze unfocused. Healey waited. Eventually the younger man's head came up. "I believe him too," he said quietly.

# # # # #

In the dim light from the panel behind his head, Mike raised his right hand and flexed his fingers again. It felt good to have the cast off, and his knuckle felt normal. All the cuts and bruises had healed and his hand looked like it always did, as if nothing had happened.

 _If only that were true,_ he thought with a tired and worried sigh. Steve's appearance had been more troubling than uplifting. And the little bombshell dropped on his exit had ruined what up until then had become a much better day than it had started out.

He raised his left hand as far as he could before he heard the metallic clang. The handcuff was back on. After the cast was removed, he'd been visited by a prison guard who, as per regulations, was obliged to insure that the prisoner was shackled to prevent an escape. He sighed again and let his hand drop back onto the bed.

If there was any upside in all of this, it was the fact that he wouldn't be returning to CCI for at least four more days. Trying to stop his mind from racing, and knowing he needed the sleep, he closed his eyes and let the fatigue, and the painkillers, overwhelm him.

# # # # #

"Okay, so tonight we're gonna go over this list that Dan and I put together and divvy it up. I want us to have gotten in touch with most, if not all, of these people by the end of the weekend. I know it's a big task, but there's a lot at stake here."

Steve was standing in the centre of Dan Robbins' small living room. The others were scattered about on all manner of furniture. Their host was handing out copies of the list.

"Using the office photocopier again, Dan?" Haseejian said under his breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.

The youngest member of the team grinned. "You better believe it. I think the department owes Mike a little more than just a few Xeroxes, don't you?"

"Hear, hear," Healey chuckled and the rest voiced their agreement.

"Now everybody has the same list, but we broke it down into three sections, assuming that we are going to keep working in pairs. Okay?"

They all looked at each other. "Bill and I'll stick together, if that's okay?" said Healey, glancing at the black sergeant perched on the edge of the couch. "We had good luck with Henry so hopefully that'll hold. Okay?" he asked Tanner with raised eyebrows.

"Fine by me."

"Good, so, Lee and Norm, and Dan and I?" Everyone nodded. Steve sat in the armchair and faced the others. "Okay, so, I know I really don't need to go over all this – we're all seasoned investigators, but I want to make sure we're all on the same page. So what we need to know is, who remembers Leonard Cord – and most of them will, it's just sort of our test question; when was the last time you heard anything about him; and, if so, do you also know he was murdered. And you know what to look for in their response. We also need to know if there's anybody physically capable of beating a man Cord's size to death in the picture – a boyfriend, a husband, a brother - or if anyone had injuries to their right hand that may have required a visit to a doctor or a hospital. Other than that, fellas, you know what to look for and what else to ask if you think you're onto something."

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "I know there's someone out there who beat Cord to death, and it wasn't Mike. And we've gotta find him." He looked each one of them in the eye. "We gotta bring Mike home."


	17. Chapter 17

**MANY THANKS TO ALL MY FAITHFUL READERS AND REVIEWERS FOR**

 **COMING ALONG ON THE RIDE - YOU ARE MY INSPIRATION!**

"Hello."

" _Steve? Oh, I'm so glad I caught you at home – you're a hard guy to get a hold of!"_

"Jeannie, hi! Sorry, ah, been really busy lately. You called here? Why didn't you leave a message?"

" _I was going to but I didn't want to bother you. Besides, I wanted to talk to you, not the machine."_ A gentle laugh.

"You got me. What can I do for you?"

" _Well, this is gonna sound a little… I don't know, neurotic, but Mike said he'd call me this week, after I talked to him on Saturday night, and I haven't heard from him. I told him Tuesdays and Thursdays were good and he sounded like he was gonna call but…"_ A loud worried sigh, a loss of words.

"Hey, you know prisons have peculiar rules, right? Maybe he couldn't get in the phone line soon enough and missed the chance to make a call last night. They only have a certain amount of time to do that. Look, if anything was wrong, you'd be the first to know, right? I mean, you're listed as his next of kin, so you would get a call."

" _I know… I just…"_

"You're just being a daughter, I know." A shared laugh. "Don't worry, he'll call."

A moment of silence. _"How do you always manage to make things better?"_ An appreciative chuckle.

"I learned at the feet of the master. Hey, so, ah, how's it going up there in rainy Seattle? Have you guys seen the sun at all in the last two weeks?"

" _Oh, is that what that big bright orb in the sky is? It's been so long, we forgot…"_

The call lasted for almost an hour; he kept his promise.

# # # # #

"Bill picked up another floater last night – must be that time of year – and Dan is investigating that string of bodega robberies –"

"The stop-and-robs?" Lee Lessing asked from his perch on the arm of the sofa.

"The what?" Steve asked, turning his knit brows towards the homicide inspector.

Lessing laughed. "In L.A., there's a chain of bodegas called 'Stop-&-Shop' – they get hit so often the cops started calling 'em 'Stop-&-Robs!"

Norm Haseejian's low chuckle filled the room. "Hey, I like that." The others agreed. It was a much needed injection of levity into what had become an increasingly frustrating week of dead ends.

"Anyway," Steve said pointedly, drawing out the word, "Dan gave me their list so we're good to go." All three photocopies of the master list were on the coffee table in the centre of the living room.

Dan Robbins entered from the kitchen with four open Buds on a small tray. He passed them around.

"You're having a beer?" Lessing asked with a frown.

"After the week Steve and I had, you better believe it," Dan said as he put the empty tray on the floor and flopped down onto the couch beside Haseejian.

The Armenian sergeant looked over at the professor, who was sitting forward in the armchair. "Sorry, Steve, but nothin' panned out for us," he said apologetically, including Lessing with a nod.

"It's not your fault, Norm, but maybe we're looking in the wrong direction here, I don't know. Dan and I didn't have any luck either and neither did the other guys. Almost everybody we've all contacted has a rock solid alibi, although, I admit, there still are question marks beside a few names."

"You know," Lessing interjected, leaning forward and flipping through the list he and Haseejian had worked, "the one family that still gives me pause is the Fernandez family."

"Cord's old landlord?" Dan asked, sitting up.

"Yeah. They're not landlords anymore. The mother got cancer about ten years ago and they lost the property to pay for her treatment. Anyway, the father said he was at work the night Cord was murdered; he's a security guard for a firm over on Powell. They move him around a lot. That night he was doing an overnight shift at a warehouse south of Market. His boss vouches for him, says he was there all night. But he was alone and it's not that far to walk from there to Pier 5 and back again. He could do it without breaking a sweat."

"I know it's over four weeks after the fact, but could you tell if he had any injuries to his right hand?" Steve asked.

Lessing glanced at Haseejian. "We both looked but couldn't see anything but, like you said, it's been over a month." He shrugged. "But I wouldn't take him off the list completely, not yet at least…"

The others nodded. Steve cleared his throat. "Well, from what Dan told me this afternoon on the phone, and from the notes here, both he and Bill think we also need to take a closer look at the Gershons. That's the girl Cord raped and murdered in '61. She had both an older and a younger brother. The father died three years ago. The older brother has an ironclad alibi, but Dan seems to think the younger one needs a closer look. They didn't interview him, seems he's, ah, between jobs and spends some nights on the street, or so they gathered. The family seems a little… embarrassed about him. Dan and Bill are going to keep trying to track him down, so he's not off the list either." Finished, he sat back and looked at Dan Robbins.

Mike's current partner leaned forward and picked up the list he and Steve had been working on. "Well, we managed to eliminate everyone on our list. So between the six of us, we have almost ruled out everyone who still lives here in The City. But there's another list we have – it's a lot shorter, mind you – with names and some addresses of people who've left town over the years. And that's gonna take a little more work, especially if we want to talk to them all face-to-face."

"Yeah," Haseeian growled, "how the hell do you wanna work that, Steve?"

The former homicide detective shook his head. "I haven't really figured that out yet. I know the department won't pay for anyone to fly anywhere so that's out of the question, so we may have to rely on phone interviews, which won't give us the advantage we want. Or," he shrugged, "we could get in touch with the local PD's and ask if they could help, but who knows if their hearts would be in it as much as ours are…? We could come off as just pains-in-the-ass and they'd blow us off.

"But I was thinking - one thing we could do is get our hands on the manifests from all the flights into and out of SFO from the day after Cord got out of Q till a couple of days after the murder. See if any of the names pop out at us, assuming, of course, that a real name was used." He smiled at Lessing and Haseejian. "Getting our hands on those manifests - that's more your bailiwick at this point, I'm afraid. I don't have the clout I used to."

"Don't worry about it," Haseejian growled with a smile and chuckle. "I still got all mine." Everyone laughed.

"You know," Lessing said quietly into the silence that followed, "I've been thinking about something. _If_ someone else beat Cord to death –" All eyes turned towards him sharply and he put his hands up in surrender. "Hear me out before you bite my head off; this is a hypothetical 'if' - I know Mike didn't do it. _If_ someone else killed Cord, then how did _they_ find out he was going to be at the pier? I mean, what? Did Mike call this third party and tell them? And even though Mike knew Cord was out, how did he know he was at the pier?"

"What are you getting at?" Steve asked.

"Well, if Mike had someone at Quentin keeping an eye on Cord, why couldn't someone else? I'm not talking someone else also using Henry as a source; I'm talking another guard altogether, or someone in the offices. It's not inconceivable, is it?"

Steve sat back, a hand on his chin and his brow furrowing. After several silent seconds, he looked at Dan and Haseejian then back at Lessing. "No, Lee, it's not."

# # # # #

They now had another plan of action. It was decided, because it was Lessing's idea, that he and Haseejian would take the point on this new avenue of investigation. It would involve a lot of crosschecking the phone numbers of their 'suspects' against the phone numbers of the guards and Quentin office personnel. It was going to be a long and laborious task. Therefore, Steve would now task Healey and Tanner with the acquisition and inspection of the airline manifests.

Lessing suggested they type all the names and numbers they needed into one of the Homicide computers and let it do the work; ever the skeptic, Haseejian wanted to do it the old-fashioned way, by hand and eye. They were still arguing about it when Dan closed the door behind them later that night.

"Yikes, I'm glad we decided to let them figure that one out," Dan chuckled as he turned back into the room. With a tired sigh, he crossed to the coffee table and started to pick up the empty plates and beer cans.

Steve was sitting back in the armchair, watching him. His affable smile disappeared quickly. "Have a seat for a second, Dan. There's something I want to tell you."

The younger man stopped what he was doing, freezing almost imperceptibly. "That sounds ominous," he said with forced lightness, but he put the plates and cans down and sat on the couch. "What's up?"

With a heavy exhale, Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I didn't have a full slate of classes on Monday, like I told everyone. I went down to Tehachapi."

Dan's eyebrows rose and his heart skipped a beat.

"Let me tell you what happened. I think you ought to know."

# # # # #

Dan sat back and sighed. "And you're sure he's all right?"

Steve smiled warmly. "He is. You don't have to worry. Now it could have been a lot worse, he was lucky…." He shook his head and snorted, still somewhat in awe and relief. "He didn't want me to tell anybody, especially Jeannie, but I thought you should know. He put himself in danger to save that guard and the other prisoner, and he was lucky he wasn't killed… He's going to be fine… but I'm worried about him, Dan. And I want to get him out of there, the sooner the better."

Swallowing heavily, Dan nodded, his eyes brighter than normal. He rubbed a forefinger across his bottom lip and cleared his throat. "Me too, Steve, me too."

# # # # #

Wearily he closed the door, dropped his coat on the couch and pressed Play on the answering machine, pulling his tie off as he waited for the tape to rewind.

" _He called! You were right, he was too late to get into the phone line-up on Tuesday night – big day in the library, he said. He sounds great. Anyway, I thought you'd like to know. Have a great weekend – hope it stops raining down there, hee-hee!"_

The message ended with a click and the tape stopped, the whir telling him it was getting itself ready for the next call. Laughing gently, he turned off the table lamp and started for the stairs. Maybe, just maybe this would be the night he would sleep without waking in a cold sweat.


	18. Chapter 18

The heavy wooden door was pushed open and Deputy Warden Harrison and a uniformed guard stepped into the room. Mike, wearing brand new prison grays, was standing beside the bed, putting his few personal effects into a paper bag.

"Almost ready?" Harrison asked.

Mike turned his head and smiled. "Yep."

Harrison stepped to the bed and picked up the bag. He nodded to the guard with a sad smile. Mike glanced briefly at the guard, who was holding a pair of handcuffs, his eyes returning to the warden, who tilted his head and shrugged. "Sorry, but it's –"

"I know," the prisoner said genially, "it's regulations. It's okay." He stepped closer to the guard, holding out both wrists. "At least they fit now," he chuckled, shaking his right hand, "no cast anymore."

With a nod and a grimly apologetic smile, the guard gently snapped the cuffs closed. The paper bag in hand, Harrison stepped to the door and held it opened for Mike and the guard to exit the room ahead of him then fell into step beside the older man in the corridor.

"I want to thank you again for what you did last night," Mike said with a grateful smile.

"What? The phone call? You're welcome. I'm just glad your daughter thought the call was coming from the prison. I thought that nurse did a good job with that, ah, mechanical voice."

Mike shook his head and chuckled. "She sure did. My daughter's a pretty sharp cookie but I think we were able to fool her."

Harrison laughed then cleared his throat. "Listen, ah, the doctors want you to take it easy for at least another week, so you're going to be confined to your bunk. You can help out in the library if you want, your choice, but no lifting any heavy books for awhile, and that's an order, okay? We don't want you back in here."

Mike smiled gently. "Okay."

They had reached one of the hospital's side entrances. A prison van was parked at the curb. Mike took the opportunity to look around before he got into the back seat; he didn't know when he would be outside the prison walls again in the next three years.

# # # # #

Steve was in the well of the lecture hall, halfway into his class on research methods. The large room was about three quarters full, the usual complement for the mandatory Friday morning course.

As had been the case lately, his attention was divided. He had delivered this particular talk so many times over the past three years that he could almost do it by rote, a habit to which he did not particularly want to succumb.

But after Lee Lessing's observation that there might have been someone else keeping tabs on Cord through a San Quentin employee, he couldn't keep his mind from going back there again and again. It was an intriguing wrinkle that he had completely overlooked, and would make a good lecture topic in the future – it's better to work with a team to keep the fresh ideas flowing.

Part of his brain was also down in Tehachapi; Mike should be getting out of the hospital today. That was good and bad news; good that he was healthy enough to return to the prison, and bad because he was healthy enough to return to the prison.

Pulling himself back to the moment, not sure if he had inadvertently repeated himself, he looked up at the eager eyes fixed on the large whiteboard behind him and plowed on. It was going to be a long day.

# # # # #

The deputy warden glanced at the handcuffed man beside him and took a deep breath. It was a short ride to the prison and he wanted to deliver the news before they arrived.

"Ah, listen, Mike, uh, look, we got word this morning about the guard, Paul Hunter… he's going to make it. His career as a prison guard is probably over, and he's got a hell of a long way to go to make a complete recovery, but at least his kids still have their dad."

Mike tilted his head back, closing his eyes and sighing loudly. "That is very good news."

"Yeah, ah," Harrison continued slowly, "but unfortunately Ryan Sheffield succumbed during the night. He never regained consciousness."

Mike's eyes had opened slowly, staring straight up. He squeezed them shut again, his breath escaping in a sharp exhalation. "Was he married?" he asked several seconds later.

Harrison nodded sadly. "Yeah, with a six-year-old girl."

"God damn it." The deputy warden barely heard the heartsick whisper into the air. After another long silence, Mike opened his eyes again and shook his head sadly. "Um, no one ever told me what he used… was it a knife or a shiv…?"

"An awl," Harrison said simply.

Mike brought his head down and turned to Harrison with a frown. "An awl?"

"Yeah, an awl's a –"

"I know what an awl is – how the hell did he get ahold of one?"

Harrison sighed unhappily and looked away, clearing his throat. "Turns out last week there was some maintenance work being done in the laundry, a company from town that we use a lot. Well, they had this new guy who wasn't used to being in the prison. He left his tool box unattended, and unlocked, and as best we can figure, Sheffield managed to get his hands on an awl the guy had and hide it away. The awl wasn't missed, I guess…"

The van was pulling up to the prison gate. Mike rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes again. "God damn it…" he whispered again to no one in particular.

# # # # #

He could feel the eyes on him as he walked back into the dormitory carrying the paper bag. He was moving slowly, looking down. Whispers filled the air around him. He put the bag on the bunk then sat carefully; he was still very sore and deep breaths were painful.

Slowly he opened the bag and removed the contents, carefully laying them out on the grey blanket, then folding the bag and sliding it under the bed. He could reach the combination lock from where he was sitting and, with practiced ease, used his right hand to spin the dial and open the shackle. He smiled to himself; it felt great to be able to use his dominant hand again.

He stood slowly and put the toiletries and other items away in the locker then closed and locked it again. He sank back down onto the mattress and stretched out on top of the blanket. With his left hand over the still healing wound in his lower chest, he closed his eyes against the bright overhead fluorescents and tried to fall asleep.

It didn't take long.

# # # # #

Bill Tanner pulled the dark blue sedan close to the yellow painted curb at the end of the block. A few people glared as he and Dan Healey got out of the illegally parked unmarked sedan and started across the street, blissfully ignoring the pointed stares.

Healey pulled a 4"x6" colour photograph out of his inside jacket pocket; it was a photo the Gershons had given him of Terrence Gershon in better days. His sister's rape and murder had really changed her younger brother, their mother had told them. He was twelve when it happened and he had never been the same since; there seemed to be nothing they could do about it. He eventually dropped out of high school and just drifted, living off his wits and the kindness of others on the streets of San Francisco. They hadn't seen him in over two years.

Tanner had showed the photograph to some of the foot patrol cops in the Tenderloin and a couple thought they recognized the young man but they couldn't be sure. He certainly didn't look the same if it was the vagrant they had in mind.

One of the patrolmen remembered seeing him in an alley off Eddy, a frequent overnight flop for the disenfranchised. And that's where the two detectives were heading.

The sun was starting to go down and the air was so cold breaths could be seen. It was also the end of a long day, but there was a sudden urgency in what they were doing that had filtered through the conversations they'd had with Steve earlier in the day. They were just 'check up' calls, but both cops had detected a change in tone that was both puzzling and galvanizing.

It was nothing concrete, they knew, just a feeling – but they had spent all their professional lives listening to their feelings, their gut instincts. And this time their gut instincts were telling them that they couldn't waste any more time, that they had to get their colleague out of that prison and home as soon as was humanly possible.

They approached the end of the alley, both of them reflexively unsnapping their holsters. Healey flashed the photo at Tanner, who stared at it again then nodded, and they started slowly into the dimly lit narrow lane. It was strewn with dirty discarded mattresses and a few large cardboard boxes that had been converted into shelters.

Tanner fished a large flashlight out of his raincoat pocket and snapped it on. They slowly worked their way down the right side of the alley. The few denizens they found were too old or the wrong gender, and none of them wanted to talk. They were halfway up the other side of the lane when an old man approached them from the street and demanded to know their business.

With a bemused glance at each other, Healey turned patiently to the elderly derelict in the battered fedora and showed him the photograph. "We're looking for this fella," Healey half-yelled. "Do you recognize him?"

The old man glared at the police sergeant through annoyed and rheumy eyes. "Ya don't have t' yell, ya know… I ain't deef!" He grabbed the print out of Healey's hand and strode purposefully towards the street, the two cops hot on his heels. He stopped in a shaft of sunlight that was streaming through the tall buildings surrounding them and squinted at the photo.

With a loud 'harrumph', he spun on his heel and held the print out towards Healey. "He ain't in there but I know where he is," he said gruffly, snapping his almost toothless jaws together.

Tanner bit his lip and looked away, trying not to laugh. Healey, taken aback, took the photo, glanced at his partner with a peeved frown then asked firmly, trying to keep the pique from his voice, "You _do_ know where he is?"

"Thas what I said, ain't it?! I knows where everybody is!" He took a step further out into the street and pointed down the block. "See that there alley 'cross the street?"

Healey followed the pointing finger and nodded.

"There." And with that the old man turned and disappeared into the darkening alley. Seconds later they heard the sound of a cardboard 'door' opening and closing and a maniacal cackle.

Tanner could hardly suppress his chuckles as he looked at Healey and his open mouth. Trying to turn his laugh into a cough, the Homicide sergeant gestured down the block. "After you…"

With an 'harrumph' of his own, Healey started rapidly down the street, Tanner right behind him. The second alley was much shorter; from the street they could already see at least three people. They approached a man on their left, who was too old to be Gershon but looked at them with a sober curiosity. Healey leaned closer and showed him the print. "Have you seen this guy?"

With a toothy grin, the homeless man pointed across the alley. Both cops turned their heads to look at a dark-clothed figure lying on a urine-stained mattress. Straightening up, Healey took the few steps across the alley.

"Excuse me," he said loudly, Tanner coming up beside him.

There was no response.

Healey glanced at Tanner and the black sergeant crouched with a sigh, frowning his displeasure as he tried to find a spot on the man's filthy coat that he felt was safe to touch. He shook the unresponsive man while Healey repeated, "Excuse me!"

There was a groan and, as Tanner quickly pulled his hand away, the derelict rolled over onto his back. Tanner snapped the flashlight on again and shone it on the man's face – it was Terry Gershon, and he looked like he'd been in a fight.


	19. Chapter 19

"Terrence Gershon?" Dan Healey was leaning over the filthy, semi-conscious man lying on the dirty mattress in the alley off Eddy. There was no response. He glanced at Tanner, who patted the grimy, bearded cheek, and tried again a little louder. "Terry Gershon?!"

A faint deep moan emanated from the homeless man and in the bright glare from the flashlight in Tanner's hand, they could see his eyes open slightly, squinting. He brought his left hand up to shield his eyes, pushing Tanner away with the other.

"Good, you're awake," Healey growled, "once more – are you Terry Gershon?"

The dark bloodshot eyes opened a little wider in the shade of the upstretched hand and a pale tongue tried to lick the dry, cracked lips. "Who's askin'?" came a guttural response.

Healey fished his star and I.D. out of his pants pocket and lowered them into the flashlight beam. The bloodshot eyes refocused then closed. "What d'ya want?"

With a heavy sigh, Healey put his badge back in his pocket. "We want you to come with us," he growled as he leaned over, putting a hand under the elbow of the filthy coat to pull Gershon to his feet.

He pulled away. "What for? I ain't done nothin'."

"Well, we don't know that and we want to talk to you," Tanner said firmly, glancing at his partner before reaching for Gershon's other arm; his grip was strong and the young vagrant knew he couldn't evade this one. He didn't have the strength.

Healey grabbed him as well and between them they got the thin, unsteady man to his feet. Gershon swayed drunkenly but Tanner couldn't smell booze on him; he suspected drugs and a bad, almost nonexistent, diet.

"I ain't goin' anywhere an' I don' have t' unless you arrest me. I know my rights."

Healey looked at Tanner and sighed. "What, you don't want to get in out of this cold for the night and have a good meal and cup of hot coffee down at Headquarters?"

Gershon stopped moving, looking at the Robbery sergeant through suspicious eyes. "Then you'll let me go?"

"After we ask you some questions, sure," Tanner assured him with a confirming nod.

Gershon looked from one detective to the other. Brown, rotting teeth appeared between his cracked lips and he snorted a short laugh. "I'd be an idiot to turn that down, now wouldn't I?"

"Oh, I wouldn't exactly say that," Healey muttered softly as he and Tanner led the fetid young man out of the alley towards their car.

# # # # #

Warden Kennedy looked up when the door opened and Harrison poked his head into the office. "Got a second?" the deputy warden asked.

"Sure, come on in."

Harrison closed the door behind him and took a seat in the one of the guest chairs, waiting a few seconds for Kennedy to finish reading the file and making a note. The warden put his pen down and looked up again. "Shoot. What do you need?"

"I'm not really sure," Harrison began with a sigh as he leaned back and crossed his legs. "I could be way off about this but… I think we need to keep an eye on Mike Stone."

Kennedy sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin. "You mean about that whole stabbing thing?"

"Yeah, that and, ah, well, I don't think he's taking Sheffield's death too good. You know as well I as do that he thinks he could have done more before the fact, and I'm pretty sure he's blaming himself that Sheffield died." Harrison uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "I've had a couple of the guys keeping an eye on him since we brought him back yesterday. They said he's been keeping to himself and not talking to anybody."

"And you think…?"

Harrison cocked his head. "I don't know what to think. Nobody knows him… But, we both know who he is, and why he's here. I just think that, well, we've seen this kinda thing happen before, right? I just want to make sure he doesn't do anything, you know, stupid…"

"You think we should get him to talk to Carleton?" Kennedy asked, referring to the prison psychologist.

The deputy warden raised his eyebrows. "Maybe not just yet… but I think we should keep an eye on him, you know. I don't want to exacerbate anything unnecessarily, but I also don't want one of the guards finding him hanging from a doorknob somewhere…"

Kennedy nodded slowly, his gaze drifting down to the top of his desk. He dropped his hands to the chair arms and sat forward. "I agree. Good call. Do what you have to, Brian, you have carte blanche."

"Great," Harrison nodded appreciatively as he shot to his feet. "Thanks."

# # # # #

"So we can cross Terrence Gershon off the list, Steve. There's no way in hell he could've taken Cord on and gotten the upper hand, unless he came up behind him and hit him with a baseball bat first. But we know from Bernie that that didn't happen. He looked like he'd been in a fight; his hands were pretty cut up and he had healing bruises on his face. But the cuts are too recent and actually look like he got 'em from rooting around in garbage cans and dumpsters.

"And he even told us he was in a fight with another tramp over a bottle of Listerine last week. God, they drink that stuff when they can't get any booze. Listen, the kid's too screwed up and too scrawny and strung out to do anything like killing Cord, and he has been for a long, long time. And hell, I don't think he could pick Cord out in a crowd if that bastard was the only one in it, for god's sake."

Steve sighed heavily. "Yeah, that's what I kinda figured, Dan. Tell Bill thanks for you guys checking him out. Nothin' like a stroll down Skid Row, hunh?" He chuckled dryly.

"Tell me about it. It's always an… adventure!" Healey laughed. "I think I have to get the interview room fumigated. Probably have to get the car cleaned too. And I can't wait to get home and take a long hot shower."

"Been there, done that."

"Anyway, sorry we couldn't push the investigation along any further, but at least we can take a name of the suspect list. Any luck anywhere else?"

"Nothing yet. Dan's checking out the Fernandez father, and Norm and Lee are still trying to get ahold of the flight manifests. We're kinda at a standstill at the moment, unfortunately but, hey, we're knocking off names one by one, and right now that's all we can do, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. Have a good night, and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Yeah, thanks again, Dan. 'Night." Steve hung up then sat back in the armchair, staring into space. The frustration was beginning to build for them all, he knew, but they couldn't allow it to become so pervasive that they overlooked something or made an error. There was too much at stake.

Too wound up to sleep, he got up and crossed to the front door, grabbing his coat and keys. Traffic on the bridge would be light at this hour; it wouldn't take long to get to Potrero. It would do him good to walk through the Stone house, no matter what the hour.

# # # # #

Dan Robbins pulled the zipper of his leather jacket to the top and wrapped the wool scarf around his neck even tighter. The wind whipping in off the inner Bay was inordinately bitter and as he shivered, exhaling air that he could see, he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and continued down Broadway. He was getting more and more discouraged. It was the third night of this undertaking and so far it had yielded nothing.

They knew that Marco Fernandez, Cord's landlord from '61 and the man who accused the now dead rapist and murderer of molesting his young daughter, was currently employed as a security guard. On the night of Cord's murder, he was pulling an all-nighter in a warehouse on Powell near Pacific, well within easy walking distance of Pier 5.

For the past three nights, starting around midnight, Dan had walked from the warehouse to the pier, using every possible combination of streets, avenues and alleys to get there. He was also stopping in at all the bars, diners and restaurants along the way that were open at that hour in the outside chance that a patron, coming or going, had seen a uniformed security guard walking down the street at that time of night.

It was a very, very long longshot, but it was something to do, and something that needed to be done. He had been shaken by what Steve had told him of the _incident_ at CCI. It had taken every ounce of his self-control not to jump into his Jeep and race down to Tehachapi to see for himself that his partner was alive and well.

So, with each step he took and each person he talked to, maybe, just maybe, they got a little closer to solving the mystery and getting Mike Stone back to The City and the people that he loved and who loved him back.

# # # # #

Mike walked slowly into the mess hall for the Saturday lunch. It was the first time he had stepped into the large cafeteria since his return the previous day; his meals till now had been delivered to his bunk. He had spent the past twenty-four hours reading, sleeping and keeping to himself.

He kept his head down as he stepped into the line-up, well aware of the whispers all around him. He glanced up; he was about twenty places from the front. The line began to move and he started to shuffle forward when suddenly the space in front of him opened up. He looked up; there was no-one between him and the food counter.

Startled, he glanced around. He realized that the men who had been in front of him were now behind him. The woman in the hairnet behind the counter smiled slightly, gesturing with her head for him to step up. Exhaling heavily, he moved to the counter and accepted the tray with the filled plate from her. Trying not wince as he picked up the heavy tray, and keeping his head down, he turned and moved into the hall, searching, under a lowered brow, for an empty table. The situation was making him very uncomfortable.

With most of the inmates still in line, locating a free table wasn't a problem and he put the tray down and sat. With a heavy sigh, he looked at the plate, picking up the fork and the dull knife. As well as a plastic cup of water and a mug of coffee, the plate contained a bun and pat of butter, a thin Salisbury steak with weak gravy, lumpy mashed potatoes and overcooked broccoli.

He was just about to cut a piece of the steak when a large body dropped onto the bench beside him. He didn't look up.

The newcomer remained silent so Mike continued to work on the steak; a cutlery knife was definitely not a steak knife. Eventually a deep baritone voice said easily, "I'm sure glad to see you back."

Mike froze; he recognized the voice. It was the same one that had whispered into his ear as he lay bleeding on this very floor six days before; it was the voice that was begging him to stay alive.

Very deliberately setting the knife and fork back down on the tray, Mike turned slowly towards this new companion. A large black man with an infectious gap-toothed grin stared back at him with raised, expectant eyebrows. "Remember me, Lieutenant?" he whispered conspiratorially.

And Mike's world suddenly collapsed.


	20. Chapter 20

Mike could hear the blood pounding in his ears as he stared at the large, smiling black man sitting beside him.

"Don't worry," the stranger continued in a whisper, "I'm not going to rat you out. Your secret's safe with me. After all, I owe you one… I owe you a big one." A friendly, calming laugh emanated from the beaming face and he leaned away slightly with a tilt of his head. "You don't remember me, do you?"

Swallowing heavily, Mike stared blankly then very slowly a subtle look of recognition began to emerge. He glanced away briefly, trying to put a name to the face that was becoming more and more familiar with each passing second. "You were one of Bob Mason's parolees, weren't you?" he asked slowly.

If it was at all possible, the stranger's smile got even wider. He nodded enthusiastically, laughing. "You got it." He held out his right hand. "Ben –"

"Driscoll," Mike finished with a happy nod and a chuckle. Shaking his head in disbelief, he took the man's hand then frowned, tightening his grip and pulling the bigger man closer. His voice became low and serious. "If I remember correctly, the last time I talked to you, they were going to review your case and you were going to be back out on parole. What the hell are you doing in here?"

Driscoll chuckled again as he began to shake the older man's hand. "It's a long story, Lieu-" He stopped suddenly, his eyes darting around. "Hey, ah, can I call you Mike or, ah, Stoney or -?"

"Mike," the older man said quickly with a gentle laugh, pulling his hand away and holding up his index finger, "please… Mike'll do just fine."

Driscoll laughed again. "Thanks. Well, it _is_ a long story, sorta, and one I'm not too proud of. An' this ain't the time or the place. But I think the bigger question is, what are _you_ doin' in here? I mean… is this for real or are you, you know…?" His eyes widened and he tilted his head questioningly; he had dropped his voice to a whisper once again.

Mike's smile wobbled and he shook his head cheerlessly. "No, this is not some kind of undercover. It's… it's real, I'm afraid."

The broad smile slowly faded and the career con began to frown. "You gotta be shittin' me, man. I mean, what the hell happened -?"

Trying to smile encouragingly, the former detective chuckled dryly. "Listen, Ben, it's another of those long and not very happy stories and I'd really like –"

Driscoll put a hand on the older man's forearm. "Hey, it's none of my business, right? No problem."

"No, no, I can tell you, it's really not a secret," Mike glanced around the crowded room and the tables within easy earshot that were beginning to fill up, "but, as you said, this isn't the time or the place."

Driscoll chuckled and nodded. "I hear ya." He looked towards the counter; the line was getting a little shorter. "Hey, I better get up there or I'm not gonna get any of that steak," he groused, pointing at the very thin piece of questionable meat on Mike's plate and starting to get to his feet. "I just wanted to say I'm glad to see you back and that you're okay."

Mike smiled up at him. "I'm glad you did. Hey, how come I didn't see you before?"

Driscoll leaned closer, dropping his voice. "I'm not in your dorm but I saw you in here the day before you were shived. I didn't believe it was you at first, but you're a hard man to forget, you know," he laughed genially, turning to head away. Then he spun back. "Hey, do I remember correctly? Something about you shooting hoops?"

Mike cocked his head and his smile got a little bigger. "I've been known to take it to the hole a time or two. And I used to coach a little."

"Yeah? Well, a bunch of us play a shirts/skins game in the yard every Sunday afternoon… ah, well, except for last week after that, ah, that dust-up in here. Look, why don't you join us tomorrow?"

Smiling in appreciation, Mike shook his head regretfully, his right hand going to the still healing wound in his chest. "I'm afraid I won't be able to do that for a couple of weeks at least. Everything still hurts like hell."

"Right, yeah, sorry, but hey, you can sit on the bench and give us some pointers, can't ya? Some of the guys are a little, ah, delinquent in the finer points of the game, if you catch my drift." Driscoll chuckled warmly.

Nodding, Mike grinned at him. "I do. And I'd love that, Ben, thanks…"

Driscoll pointed an index finger at him. "Tomorrow, one o'clock. I'll see you there." He looked towards the counter. "Gotta get me some a that steak…" he mumbled to himself as he strode away, "mm-mmm-good…"

Mike watched him go, still slightly bewildered by what had just taken place. The smile lingering, he turned back to the rapidly cooling steak and congealing gravy on his plate, picking up the cutlery once again and attempting to sever a piece of meat small enough to get into his mouth. That turned out to be the hardest task he faced all day.

# # # # #

"Thanks," Steve mumbled to the waitress as she set the fresh pint near his elbow. His head was down, his eyes focused on the yellow legal length pad on the table in front of him, flipping through pages and making notes.

"See, I told ya he'd be here already." The familiar voice became louder as it approached. "An annoying habit he no doubt picked up from his former boss." The mocking chuckle was accompanied by a chorus of snorts.

"Norm," Steve acknowledged without looking up, gesturing blindly towards the five empty chairs surrounding the table, "Dan, Lee, Bill, Dan…"

Chuckling, the five detectives pulled the chairs out and sat, picking up the menus that were waiting for them. Tanner tossed a thick, legal size manila envelope onto the table. Steve continued his perusal of the notes on the pad while they all ordered drinks. As Haseejian watched the waitress head back towards the kitchen, he looked around the nearly empty restaurant. "Wow," he observed sarcastically, "this is a real hot-spot on a Saturday night."

Steve looked up at him, frowning. With a slight smirk, he asked, "Norm, you do know where we are, right?"

Sensing a trap, Haseejian glanced around the table then offered tentatively, "San Francisco…?"

Steve's shoulders sagged and he rolled his eyes as the others smothered laughs. "No, Norm, I meant, what street are we on?"

Still wary, his eyes darting from one colleague to the other, he tried again. "O'Farrell…?"

Nodding slowly, Steve encouraged, "Right… So, what's one block away from here? And two blocks away from here?"

Mouth open and brow furrowed, Haseejian looked at Healey and shrugged. Healey turned to Steve, jerking a thumb in Haseejian's direction. "He doesn't get out much."

"The theatre district, Norm. We're in the theatre district."

It was Haseejian's turn to shrug. "So?"

"So the plays start at eight o'clock, so people go to restaurants either well before the play starts or after it ends, around ten, ten-thirty. So… you can usually get a good table in this neighborhood after eight." Steve finished by gesturing around the room.

"You gotta get out more," Lessing said firmly, staring at Haseejian straight-faced as Healey and Tanner smothered chuckles.

Haseejian snorted petulantly. "I get out plenty… it's just not to _the theatuh…_ " he grumbled with a horrible _posh_ accent. The others laughed louder.

Dan Robbins was sitting back quietly, his large smile not quite reaching his eyes. Steve glanced at him, understanding instantly the frustration the younger man was feeling, that they all were feeling, about the lack of progress.

Steve wondered if he had made the right choice telling Mike's partner about the stabbing; Dan had become increasingly withdrawn since their little talk, and Steve was getting worried that the younger man was succumbing to the stark realization that what had started as an optimistic crusade was slowly turning into a study in futility.

Clearing his throat pointedly, Steve sat back and tossed the pen onto the pad. "So, gents, our long list has been whittled down quite a bit, and I thank you for that. Good work all around." The others nodded in grateful acknowledgement. "And I know it's getting more and more frustrating, all these dead ends, but you guys know as well as I do that the more people we eliminate, the closer we come to whoever did this."

He nodded towards the envelope on the table and looked at Tanner. "Is that what I think it is?"

The black Homicide sergeant nodded. "The flight manifests. We got 'em this afternoon. It took awhile for all the airlines to cough 'em up, but the threat of a court order always helps."

"Yeah," Healey chimed in, "we can thank Gerry for that little suggestion." His expression changed from jovial to exasperated as he looked at the thick envelope. "Now comes the hard part… the cross-checking…"

Haseejian chuckled. "Don't worry, old man, Lee and I have no more leads to chase or phone numbers to stare at so we can give you guys a hand."

"I can too," Dan Robbins put in quietly. He leaned forward and took them all in with an apologetic glance. "I couldn't break Marco Fernandez's alibi and believe me, I tried. That doesn't mean he's off our list, it just means we don't have anything… and I mean _anything_ that puts him on the pier the night Cord was murdered."

Haseejian nodded, frowning. "Well, Lee and I were talking to Dan and Bill when we were driving here, and we're thinking of taking the day tomorrow and getting started on this." He gestured at the envelope. "If you guys are free," he looked at Dan and Steve, "we could meet at my place –"

"I've got a better idea," Healey interrupted, "sorry, Norm, but Bonnie has been itching to try out this new brisket recipe someone gave her and she's looking for an excuse and I think we just provided her with one. Let me go give her a call and I'll confirm, okay?"

Lessing, Haseejian and Tanner all nodded enthusiastically, the desire for a home-cooked meal suddenly overriding everything else. Dan sat back slightly, almost cringing in his chair.

Healey looked at the young Homicide inspector and laughed. "Don't worry, Dan, Bonnie whips up a mean salad and she has an eggplant parm recipe that'll warm the cockles of your heart!" He was still laughing as he disappeared into the bowels of the restaurant in search of a payphone.

"Mmm-mmmm, brisket. I can hardly wait," Haseejian chuckled, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"Well, you guys are gonna have to enjoy Bonnie's cooking without me, I'm afraid," Steve announced. "I'm gonna be in Philadelphia."

Dan inclined his head, frowning. "Philadelphia? What for?"

Steve looked at him and smiled. "The last major name on our list – the Mercers."

The others looked at each other. "You really think one of them could have flown all the way here to knock off Cord?" Tanner asked skeptically.

"Bill, you know as well as I do we can't rule anything out, right. Valerie Mercer had a mother, a younger sister and an older brother when she died. Now we can safely rule out the younger sister and the mom, but I want to know about that older brother. He was about 22 or 23 when she was killed so that would make him close to thirty now. I just want to know how he still feels about the murder of his little sister.

"Right now the only information I have on them is the mother's address in Philly. And I want her to tell me where her son and daughter are living now. I want to talk to both of them. Who knows, the sister may have a husband or a boyfriend she's talked to about the murder as well. We still have a lot of rocks we have to look under when it comes to this family, I think."

"What about the father?" Lessing asked. "Was there a father in the picture?"

"They divorced two years before Valerie was murdered and he moved back east somewhere. I want to track him down too, of course. All I've got on him right now is an old California DMV photo." Steve put his forearms on the table and leaned forward. He nodded at the manila envelope. "When you go through that list, check all the flights with a Philly connection. And Bill, I want you to go over those phone lists again and see if there are any calls with a Pennsylvania area code. You know, just in case."

"You got it," Tanner said, nodding.

The waitress arrived with their drinks, setting the glasses on the table. When she left, Steve picked up his beer. "Gentlemen, let's hope the week ahead is a lot better than the week behind."

"Hear, hear." They clinked glasses.

# # # # #

Mike Stone stepped out into the bright sunshine and slowly made his way through the noisy bustle to the asphalt court. He could already hear the metallic thump of a basketball hitting the pavement.

It was a gorgeously warm and sunny day and the vast majority of the inmates were taking advantage of it. A lot of them were just standing around talking and smoking; others were using the time to exercise. A good number were lining the court, watching a game already in progress.

Mike tentatively pushed his way through the crowd to the edge of the asphalt behind one of the hoops. Almost immediately he heard his name called out and Ben Driscoll appeared through a small scrum, making his way over, the ever-present gap-toothed grin plastered on his open face.

Mike nodded and smiled. He hoped this was going to be one of his better days.

# # # # #

Flight bag in hand, Steve Keller stepped into the terminal at the Philadelphia International Airport and looked around. It wasn't hard to spot the detective standing off to one side, scanning the arriving passengers.

Steve approached the tall, broad-shouldered man in the pork-pie hat and held out his hand. "Detective Rogers? I'm Steve Keller."

The stern face broke into a wide grin. "Stan. Call me Stan, if I can call you Steve?"

"Sure can," the Californian replied with a smile of his own, shaking hands.

"Welcome to Philly, Steve. Now let's see if we can get you what you want."


	21. Chapter 21

It was cold in Philadelphia, but not quite cold enough to snow. Luckily Steve had brought a heavy coat and Detective Rogers had turned on the heat in the car.

He had caught the earliest flight possible but it was still dinnertime when the wheels touched down in the City of Brotherly Love. But for what he wanted to do, the timing was perfect.

"Just so ya know, when you called yesterday, I had one of our patrol cars swing by that address you gave us. They ran the plate from the car in the driveway and we confirmed that a Mrs. Eleanor Mercer lives there. Alone, as far as we know."

Steve glanced across the front seat with an impressed smile. "Wow, thanks, that's great."

Rogers chuckled. "Well, I'm not done yet. I also put our boys to work on tracking down her husband. I took them a copy of that DMV photo you faxed us and our fellas got ahold of the motor vehicle departments here and those of our neighboring states and, well, I think we tracked him down."

"Are you serious?" Steve almost laughed, amazed and impressed.

The chuckles turned into a deep belly laugh as the Philadelphia detective swung the dark green unmarked sedan onto a tree-lined street in a well-kept middle-class neighborhood. "Well, if it's the same man, and we're pretty sure it is, he's living in Hagerstown, Maryland."

"Hagerstown," Steve mused, "where is that exactly?"

"Northwest of Washington and Baltimore. It's about a three-hour drive from here if you take the interstate." Rogers glanced over. "Mrs. Mercer is home; I had one of my men do a drive-by just before your plane landed. She'll probably be in all night. Ladies like her don't like to drive much after dark."

"Yeah. Thanks." Steve was quiet for a few seconds, thinking. "Ah, Stan, I know I don't have any official status here… Hell, I'm not even a cop in San Francisco anymore… But do you have any objection if I talk to Mrs. Mercer alone? I'll tell her it's not official or anything, I just want some information… I just think she might be more open if it's just me and there's not some guy with a badge listening to her every word, you know what I mean?"

"So you don't think she knows anything about what happened with your former partner?"

Steve had spent almost half an hour on the phone with Detective Rogers the day before, telling him everything he felt comfortable sharing about what was happening in San Francisco. He had gotten Rogers' name from Captain Roy Devitt, who had met the Philadelphia detective on a course years ago and kept in touch.

"Well, as of right now I don't," Steve admitted, "and we know for sure, of course, that no woman could have killed our victim. At least no woman I've ever run across. Of course, a woman could have hired someone, but this just doesn't feel like that, to any of us. Our list of subjects has been whittled down to just a handful and the Mercers are still a loose end. She has a son around thirty and a daughter around twenty. The daughter's not in the picture, of course, but the son needs to be accounted for. And there could be other male relatives we're unaware of."

"What about the father? Do you think he could've been involved?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know but I don't think so. They were divorced two years before the daughter was killed and he left town right after the papers were served. We knew he moved back east right away, so he's probably been in Hagerstown since then."

Rogers had pulled the car to a stop at the curb in front of a well-cared-for red brick single home on a tree-lined street. "We're here," Rogers announced, putting the car in Park and turning off the engine.

The lights in the front room were on behind the sheer curtains. Steve turned to Rogers and smiled. "I, ah, I don't know how long this is going to take. I can grab a cab to the hotel when I finish –"

"Don't worry about it, professor," the avuncular detective chuckled, "I've gotten pretty good over the years waiting in cars. And there's a coffee shop just a few blocks from here. If I get too cold, I can zip over there and get myself a cuppa joe."

Steve grinned. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"When I'm done here, remind me to tell you about my former partner's observations on stake-outs." He laughed as he reached for the door handle and got out. "Thanks a lot, Stan."

"Good luck!"

Steve slammed the door, pulling his coat closed as he walked up the flagstone walkway to the front door. He glanced back at the unmarked car before he knocked on the door; it was too dark to see the bell.

After a couple of seconds of silence, he heard the muted sound of footsteps on a hardwood floor and the overhead light snapped on. A face briefly appeared in the opaque glass panel beside the door before it opened a few inches.

"Yes, can I help you?" came a pleasant voice from behind the chain guard.

"Mrs. Mercer?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Mercer, you probably don't remember me, but my name is Steve Keller. I used to be a homicide detective in San Francisco."

He heard the sharp intake of breath and he waited. Eventually she asked quietly, "You were one of the men investigating my daughter's death, weren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's right, with my partner, Lieutenant Mike Stone… Jeannie's dad."

"Yes, yes, I remember you both." The door closed and he could hear the chain rattle, then the door opened again, almost all the way this time. A pleasant-looking, blondish-grey, middle-aged woman took a step backwards, her haunted eyes boring into his face. "Yes," she said slowly, "yes, I remember you…" She swallowed heavily, biting her lips, obviously trying to control the emotions that had suddenly flooded back. "But what are you…?"

"I don't mean to upset you, Mrs. Mercer, but I need to ask you some questions, if you don't mind?"

"Some questions?" she asked, frowning, a hand going to her mouth. "About Valerie?"

"Ah, no ma'am, about Leonard Cord."

The frown instantly disappeared, replaced by a look of loathing that was as startling as it was sudden. "What about him?" she spat out, her voice cold and hard.

Steve hesitated, taken aback, then looked around, pulling his coat closer around his neck. "Ah, ma'am, if I could go inside, I can explain everything to you." He was desperate to get into the house; he didn't want her closing the door in his face.

She hesitated and his heart skipped a beat. Then she took another step back and opened the door a little wider. Trying not to sigh in relief, he nodded his appreciation as he stepped across the threshold.

# # # # #

Mike walked slowly towards his bunk and, with his left hand supporting his lower chest, eased himself down onto the blanket with a low moan. Taking a couple of seconds for the ache to subside, he dropped his hand to the bed and smiled.

He glanced at his watch; it was only 6:30 but it felt much later. He had just finished dinner, at a table with Ben Driscoll and a bunch of the players, after a long afternoon standing on the sidelines of the basketball court.

The other players had eyed him skeptically when Driscoll 'introduced' him; most were suspicious at first, questioning how in the world a con like Driscoll would know someone like this 'old honky', but Driscoll quickly shut them down.

Mike had kept to himself when the game resumed, watching the action without comment from a perch on the bench of a picnic table nearby. But about a half hour later, he called Driscoll over and quietly whispered something in his ear. With a grin, Driscoll jogged back onto the court, and within seconds he had snagged a rebound, raced down the court and, evading a defender, dropped in a shot off the backboard.

Celebrating with a loud whoop and open arms as he raced back up the court, Driscoll stared at Mike in delight. The older man laughed, clapping his hands as he got to his feet and moved closer to the sidelines.

Within minutes, several of the other players had approached him, asking for tips. By the time the game ended, Mike was 'one of the guys'. He accompanied Driscoll to the showers, waiting outside till the players re-emerged, and they headed to the mess hall in a cluster.

Mike had glanced over his shoulder, smiling slightly. The same guard had been following him all day, surreptitiously shooting glances in his direction and looking away when Mike turned towards him. Mike dropped his head and sighed, not unhappily. He knew what that was all about; he knew they were worried about him in the warden's office.

Now, dinner finished, he had made his way back to his bunk. He was tired and sore, and the spectre of Ryan Sheffield's death still weighed heavily on his heart. But it had felt good to be outside, participating in an activity that he loved, if only for a few short hours in a very long week.

Moving slowly, he stood again and stripped off his shoes, socks, shirt and pants, putting them away in his locker. Then, in his t-shirt and boxer shorts, crawled under the sheet and heavy wool blanket and closed his eyes. But, exhausted as he was, sleep would not come easily.

# # # # #

Mrs. Mercer took Steve's coat, draping it over the newel post of the banister to the second floor, then led him into the small, tidy living room. She gestured towards the sofa for him to sit.

As he did so, she asked, "Would you like a cup of coffee? I still have some from dinner."

He smiled warmly and nodded. "Yes, that would be great, thank you. It was a long flight."

"You flew in today?" she asked as she disappeared into the small kitchen.

"Yes, ah, just landed about an hour ago." He raised his voice slightly to make sure he was loud enough. He could hear a cupboard being opened, the soft thud of a mug set down on a counter, the splash of coffee being poured.

He glanced around the room, taking particular interest in the family photos on the mantel. He recognized an old colour portrait of Valerie, most likely a high school picture. There was also what he assumed to be a more recent shot of a young, handsome blonde man in a suit and tie, smiling confidently at the camera.

"Milk and sugar?"

"Just a bit of milk, please."

The fridge was opened then closed several seconds later. A spoon could be heard rattling against the ceramic. She came back into the living room with the mug in both hands and set it on a coaster on the coffee table near her guest.

"Thank you very much," Steve smiled gratefully as he picked it up and took a sip, nodding happily. "Thank you, I needed that. The airlines really don't make very good coffee."

She had taken a seat in the armchair beside the sofa, her hands in her lap. She chuckled nervously. "So, Inspector Keller, what is it you want to ask me?"

"Ah, I'm, ah, I'm really not a police inspector anymore, Mrs. Mercer. I left the force about three years ago. I'm a criminology professor at Berkeley now."

Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Oh, I see. So this is not an official police visit?"

"No, ma'am, it's not. It's personal." He watched as she frowned, confused, and he continued quickly. "I'm here to help a friend. Jeannie's father, actually. He's in a lot of trouble and I'm trying to help him out." He was trying to be deliberately vague, at least for the time being.

"I see," she said slowly, trying to read between the lines. "Then if I may ask, Mr. Keller, what does this have to do with me? And what have you come all this way to ask me?"

His smile disappeared for a split second. "Please, call me Steve." He sat back and crossed his legs, hoping to appear casual and disarming.

"All right," she said softly, "if you call me Eleanor." Her smile was gracious and he grinned and nodded.

"Okay," he agreed reluctantly, uncomfortable calling an older woman by her given name. "Um, when was the last time you heard anything about Leonard Cord?"

The darkness returned to her eyes and the smile disappeared. She inhaled angrily before saying, "I haven't heard anything about that man since he was sent to prison over six years ago," she said curtly, "after he murdered my daughter."

Her pain was still just under the surface, he knew. He hated bringing it back up, he hated to pursue this any further but he had to, not only for Mike but for himself and the others.

He swallowed heavily and dropped his eyes briefly before he continued. "So you didn't hear anything about him recently, about six weeks or so ago?"

"Six weeks ago? No, why should I? What happened?" She sounded alarmed and suddenly afraid. "Did he escape?"

"Ah, no, ma'am, no, he didn't escape. He, ah," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "he was released, accidentally."

"Accidentally? What do you mean he was released accidentally?" Her eyes were wide, terrified, and she leaned forward, her entire body rigid with fear.

Steve held up his hands, shaking his head. "No, no, he's not free, he's not a threat…" He paused and took a quick breath. "He's dead, Mrs. Mercer. He was killed. He was murdered."

He watched as her face changed. She stared at him, the fear, worry and hate slowly transforming into a relieved and almost joyful demeanor. And he watched as, almost imperceptibly, she glanced proudly towards the mantel and the photo of her son.

She looked back at him, straight into his eyes. "Good," she said simply, and his blood ran cold.


	22. Chapter 22

Steve didn't move; he didn't even blink. He couldn't give away that fact that he had seen her barely perceptible glance at her son's photo. He was suddenly aware that he was shaking; he hadn't been in this kind of a situation in a long time. He uncrossed his legs and sat forward, elbows on knees and fingers laced.

She continued to stare at him, a slight smile on her pleasant, grandmotherly face. And for a moment, he wasn't sure if maybe he had read more into her reaction than was actually there.

"Well, I guess we won't have to worry about Leonard Cord anymore, will we?" Her voice was calm and steady.

He tilted his head and smiled ironically. "No, I guess we won't." He reached for the mug and took another sip of coffee, trying to gauge her state of mind.

Mrs. Mercer watched him silently then asked, "I'm sure you didn't come all this way just to tell me that. You said that you were here to help Jeannie's father… and that you had some questions?"

Putting the cup down, Steve sat back slightly. "Uh, yes, Jeannie's Dad, my former partner, well, he's, ah, he's had to… defend himself against some accusations… that I believe are unfounded." He stumbled over the explanation, not wanting to give too much away and not quite lying.

"Does it have anything to do with Leonard Cord being murdered?"

Steve nodded grimly. "Yes, I'm afraid it does. And, ah, some of his colleagues and I are hoping that if we shed some light on what happened to Cord, we might be able to help Mike, ah, Lieutenant Stone."

"Shed some light? What do you mean by that? And how can I possibly help?"

"Well," he said carefully, trying to find the right words, "we need to eliminate every possible suspect in the murder –"

"And you think _I_ had something to do with it?" she interrupted sharply, her voice rising in pitch and steeped in anger.

"No, no, of course not," he assured quickly, raising his hands placatingly, "this is all just routine. The SFPD has to go through every name that appears in Cord's record, from the earlier conviction in 1961… and the one in '73…" He left the rest unspoken.

"You can say it, Mr. Keller - when he murdered my daughter." Her voice had a cold edge and her reversion to the formal mode of address was not lost on him. He knew he had to tread lightly.

"Yes," he acceded quietly. "It's just routine, nothing more."

"Then why are _you_ here and not a member of the police department?"

"Well, we thought it might be easier, because Mike and I were the ones who arrested Cord in '73, for you to –"

"Why? Because you had a personal connection?"

He could almost see the icicles hanging from every word and he knew he was rapidly losing control of the situation.

"My daughter was murdered because Leonard Cord had a grievance against your partner. She was a pawn that Cord used to get to him and nothing more. What makes you think that I would do anything now to come to Mike Stone's aid?"

The harsh words hung in the air between them as she stared into his eyes, daring him to contradict her. A tense silence filled the room; eventually he sighed and dropped his eyes. "Mrs. Mercer, Mike knew nothing of Cord's plans when he murdered your daughter, and nobody took it more personally, believe me. He took the loss of your daughter very hard, but he had a job to do at the time, and he did it… magnificently, I might add."

"It still didn't bring my daughter back, did it?"

"No, ma'am, it didn't. And there was nothing he, or me, or anybody else could do about that. All we could do – all we _did_ do – was arrest Cord and put him back behind bars where he belonged."

She stared at him; he couldn't read anything from her guarded expression. Then she inhaled and said flatly, "And he got out again. How convenient."

"Yes, ma'am. But, like you said, we won't have to worry about him anymore, will we?"

Her blue eyes bored into his for several long seconds, then her rigid posture relaxed slightly and the ghost of a smile played across her lips. "Yes, well, I guess we can all be thankful for that." She leaned back in the chair but continued to stare at him. "You said you had some questions, so go ahead and ask them."

Trying to mask a relieved sigh, he leaned back slightly as well. "Thank you. Well, like I said, the department is just trying to cross as many names off the list as we can and because of your family's… strong connection to Cord, we have to eliminate you all."

"So my name will now come off the list, I take it?" she asked with a slight smile.

He chuckled and looked down, nodding. "Yes, it will."

"But I'm assuming you will still want to talk to my son and daughter, is that it?"

He smiled gratefully. "Yes, that would be great. Then I could cross their names off too," he said smoothly.

"Well, I think I can do that for you." She got up and moved to a nearby writing desk. "My daughter just got married earlier this year; she and her husband are living in Colorado Springs. He's in the Air Force, an instructor at the academy there." She slid open the top drawer and took out an address book.

Steve pulled a notebook and pen out of his jacket pocket.

As she returned to the sofa, she continued, "My son is in finance. He's working for the Chase Manhattan Bank at their headquarters in New York. You're going to have a hard time getting ahold of him, I'm afraid; he works all the time and he's always travelling for business." She started flipping through the address book.

Steve caught his breath. He waited until she showed him her daughter's address and phone number to copy down before asking breezily, "Does he ever get back to San Francisco?"

"Oh yes, they have a lot of business out there."

He could hear his heart hammering in his ears as he wrote down the Colorado Springs address. She took the book back, flipped a page and showed him another address – the son's in New York. "Is your son married?"

"Not yet," she sighed wistfully, and he could tell he had hit a nerve, "but my daughter is expecting. In March."

Finished writing, he snapped his notebook shut and looked up, smiling. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," she nodded graciously, beaming. "The first of many, I hope."

He chuckled. "Well, ah, thank you, Mrs. Mercer, I appreciate your cooperation."

"You're very welcome."

He stood, slipping the notebook and pen back into his pocket. She rose to her feet. "It's a lot colder here than it is in San Francisco, isn't it?" she said pleasantly as he crossed to the newel post and picked up his coat.

"Well, it's a different kind of cold," he said conversationally as he shrugged the coat on. "You get the snow, we get the fog."

"Oh, I don't miss that fog," she laughed as she turned the lock on the door and opened it.

As he stepped to the threshold, he turned back. "Oh, by the way, do you keep in touch with your ex-husband at all?"

The pleasant smile disappeared again, the lips suddenly a taut line. "Gordon and I haven't spoken since the funeral. I don't even know where he is."

"He was at Valerie's funeral?" Steve asked, genuinely surprised. Mike had never mentioned that, but then again there was no reason he would.

"Yes," she said bitterly, "and that was the last time he saw his other children as well. He's a vile man, Mr. Keller. And I don't care to know anything about him."

Steve digested the words with an understanding nod. "I'm sorry. Well, ah, thank you very much for your time… and your honesty. I'm sorry I brought up such bad memories, but you've helped us very much, and I thank you for that. Goodbye." He reached out and shook her hand warmly.

"Goodbye, Mr. Keller," she smiled as he stepped onto the stoop and she closed the door behind him.

Exhaling heavily and pulling the heavy coat around his neck, his breath clearly visible in the crisp night air, he strode back down the walkway to the unmarked sedan. It was parked exactly where it was before; Rogers hadn't gone for 'a cuppa joe' after all.

He opened the passenger side door and got in. Rogers greeted him with a warm smile and a cardboard cup of steaming coffee. "I thought you might need this. How did it go?"

Eyes wide, Steve accepted the hot cup, chuckling. "I was sure you hadn't gone anywhere – the car is in the same exact place."

Rogers shrugged. "There ain't much traffic on this street. I got the same spot."

Shaking his head in amusement, Steve took the plastic lid off the cup. "Yeah, I can use this."

"So, how did it go? Did she come clean, tell you she flew out to 'Frisco and pummeled that creep to death?"

Steve had frozen midway to taking a sip. "Okay, before we go any further, Stan, a word of advice. If you ever get out to San Francisco, for god's sake never call it 'Frisco. The natives'll hate you forever."

"But everyone calls it Frisco, don't they? I hear that in the movies and on TV all the time."

"Only people who've never been to San Francisco call it 'Frisco. Believe me, if you call it 'Frisco while you're there, they'll set you straight… and sometimes it's not too pretty."

Laughing, the big cop held up his hands. "Okay, okay, you've convinced me – San Francisco. So, is she a name off your list or a notch on your belt?"

Steve chuckled again; he was beginning to really like this guy. "Naw, she's definitely off the list. But her son, that's someone I want to talk to – Paul Mercer. He's a banking hotshot in New York. She's got a picture of him in there; he looks more than capable of handling himself." He decided to keep the tidbit of Eleanor Mercer's furtive glance at her son's photo to himself for the moment.

"And it turns out the daughter is married to an Air Force officer. They live in Colorado Springs. Now it's a short flight from Colorado Springs to San Francisco, so that's another angle we're going to have to check out."

"Good stuff," Rogers said with a nod and a facial shrug. He picked his own cup of coffee off the floor near his feet and took a quick sip. "Oh, ah, I took the liberty of making a couple of house calls while you were busy in there," he nodded towards the Mercer home. "There and there," he nodded again towards two other houses with their lights still on, one two doors down on the right, the other directly across the street from the Mercers.

Steve looked at him, brow furrowed, and waited. With an enigmatic smile, Rogers set the cup back down on the floor and reached into his coat pocket, slipping out a photo and setting it on the seat between them.

Nodding again at the house down the street, he said simply, "They weren't any help, but the people across the street there… well, they were a different story altogether." He smiled slightly. "They said they know Mrs. Mercer really good, known her for years. They even _socialize_ ," he put a sarcastic lilt on the word, "quite a bit, know the family well.

"And they remember seeing this person around the house a couple of times about, oh, six weeks, two months ago… they couldn't be sure exactly when. Mrs. Mercer didn't introduce him, but they recognized him from a photo she has on her mantel in the living room."

He snapped on the dome light; Steve's eyes immediately went to the photo on the seat. It was the DMV photo of Gordon Mercer. His heart started to pound and he looked up at Rogers, eyes wide.

The Philadelphia detective smiled. "They even remembered he had a white bandage on his right hand."


	23. Chapter 23

Steve stared at Rogers without moving for so long that the Philadelphia detective finally started to laugh. "You still with me?"

"She lied to me," the criminology professor mumbled quietly, staring into space, "she looked me right in the eye and she lied to me."

The deep chuckle filled the car. "This can't be the first time someone you interviewed lied to you…?"

"Well, no," Steve growled, shaking his head slowly in disbelief at his own gullibility. "Wow… so _this_ is how it feels to lose your touch… I've been out of the game too long, I guess."

"Hey, don't be too hard on yourself," Rogers said with a friendly pat on the shoulder, "it happens to all of us from time to time."

"I guess. Well, ah," he said with a little more conviction, looking at Gordon Mercer's old DMV photo again and snorting in disbelief, "I have a lot of work to do…"

"What you mean _I,_ Kemosabe?" Rogers asked with a laugh, skewing the popular phrase. Steve looked at him in confusion. The detective stared back. "You think I'm just gonna drop you off at your hotel and disappear into the night, leave you to solve this little mystery all on your own? No sirree, Bob – we're in this together."

Steve had begun to smile and shake his head. "Stan, I can't ask you to drop everything –"

"I'm not droppin' anything – and you have no idea who you have in this car with you. I am _the_ Homicide detective here in Philly with so many vacation days accumulated that they have to force me to take 'em or I'd bankrupt the city. So if I decide to take a few days off, the bosses will slap me on the back and escort me to the door faster than you can say 'cheesesteak'."

Steve's smile turned into a genuine laugh. Then he sighed loudly and closed his eyes. He swallowed heavily before opening his eyes again and looking at Rogers almost self-consciously. He picked up the photo. "This is the first time since all this started almost two months ago that we have something, tenuous as it is, that makes me think I was right… and Mike didn't do it." His voice was barely above a whisper.

Rogers smiled warmly and put his hand on the younger man's shoulder again. When Steve met his eyes he nodded in complete understanding. Then, with a wink and a click of his tongue, he turned the engine on and shifted into Drive.

Steve glanced around quickly. "Where are we going?"

"You said so yourself, we got a lot to do," Rogers said as he snapped on the headlights and pulled the car away from the curb, "but this is not the time to get started. You've had a long day and it's a Sunday night. Let's get a good night's sleep, both of us, and we can tackle this fresh first thing in the morning. What do you say?"

Steve knew he was right and nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Anyway, I gotta let the fellas back home know what I found out, and I gotta tell the guy that's taking my lectures and courses tomorrow that he may have to find someone to help fill in for a few more days. And I know I might be jumping the gun here, but I'm gonna have to talk to our ADA about extradition as well, if it comes to that."

Rogers chuckled gently. "I know you're feeling optimistic, but don't get ahead of yourself, okay? There might be a totally innocent, and legitimate, reason for Mercer _pere_ to be here, right? I mean, those are still his kids."

"Yeah, but neither of the kids lives here anymore, just Mrs. Mercer, who told me he was a 'vile man' and she hadn't seen him since the funeral, over six years ago. So if that _was_ him here, she obviously knew about it and she's covering for him." He fell silent, trying to put the very rough-cut edges of the huge puzzle together. So far nothing fit perfectly, but it was getting close; he could feel it.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," he said slowly several long seconds later, then he snapped his fingers. "The bandage." He looked at Rogers' profile. "You said the neighbors said his hand was bandaged, right?"

"Umh-humh."

"Mike broke a knuckle; he was in a cast for about six weeks. Do you think the bandage on Gordon Mercer's hand could've been a cast?"

"Hmm, I didn't think to ask, but we can follow-up on that tomorrow. 'Cause I'm pretty sure you're gonna want to come back here and talk to the neighbors, right?" There was a cheekiness in Rogers' voice that Steve couldn't resist. He chuckled.

"Yeah, I know, _Investigation Techniques 101._ You know, I actually teach that. But what I'm thinking is, _if_ Gordon Mercer is the guy who beat Cord to death and not my partner, and the damage done to his hand was done at that time… _and_ if it was serious enough for him to have to see a doctor… maybe, just maybe he went to a doctor, or an emergency room, in San Francisco. That's an avenue of investigation we didn't even think of… Damn it…"

"Hey, what, you have a crystal ball out there in California? If you do, could you find another one and send it back here? Come on, don't beat yourself up…" He paused and laughed at the irony, shaking his head. "You know what I mean…"

Steve joined in the laughter. He was getting punch-drunk, he knew; he needed to get some sleep and recharge his batteries. He ran his hands over his face. "Sorry…" he chuckled.

The deep laughter filled the car again. "Listen, I'm gonna drop you off at the hotel, you're gonna check in and make your phone calls back home and then you're gonna go to bed and get a good night's sleep. And tomorrow I will pick you up at 8 a.m., treat you to a truly superb Philly breakfast, and then you and I are gonna start to work on getting your old partner out of the joint. How does that sound?"

For the first time in a long time, Steve felt optimistic. Staring at Rogers profile with a warm smile, he nodded. "That sounds like a plan, Stan."

The detective's belly laugh filled the car once again.

# # # # #

"Are you kidding?!"

Steve pulled the phone away from his ear for a second and chuckled. "No, Dan, I am definitely not. Gordon Mercer was spotted at his wife's place about six weeks, two months ago, with a bandage on his right hand."

"And she had just told you she hadn't seen him since the funeral?"

"Yep, she looked me right in the eye and lied like a pro. I have to admit, I admire her chutzpah; she didn't bat an eye." He snapped a sunflower seed between his teeth and dropped the empty shell into the garbage can beside the bed. Rogers had stopped at an all night 7-11 near the hotel for Steve to pick up a few things, sunflower seeds and a bottle of Coke among them.

"Wow, that's great… so, ah, what is it you want us to do out here?"

"Okay, so now we can get more specific about things. I want you guys to go back over the flight manifests, looking specifically for flights from Colorado Springs, Washington, Baltimore and Philadelphia. Those are the most direct routes of course, so if you don't find anything, we may have to look for flights that originate in those cities but have stops in other airports on the way to San Fran. And don't necessarily look for the name Mercer. The daughter's husband's name is Proctor, Aaron Proctor. Just flag anything that looks suspicious."

"Okay." Steve could tell that Dan was making notes as he listened.

"And I want someone to go over those phone calls back and forth from Q personnel again because now we are looking for any calls that would have gone back east – D.C., Maryland, Pennsylvania and also to Colorado. There's a good chance the call wasn't made to someone's home but to another number, so that's something we have to check out too."

He could hear a sheet of paper being flipped over and knew Dan was writing furiously on a pad. He smiled; he could feel the renewed sense of optimism over the phone.

"And we've got a new line of inquiry to look into. The neighbors here said it looked like Mercer had a bandage on his right hand, but it could have been a cast. They were too far away to tell, I'm assuming – and I can confirm that tomorrow when we go back to talk to them again. But, assuming it is a cast, or even a bandage that was professionally applied, I'm thinking that if Mercer _was_ the one who beat Cord to death, that he needed medical attention, especially if he broke a knuckle or a bone in his hand, like Mike did."

"So you want us to check out emergency rooms and doctors for someone coming in that night or the next day with a broken bone in their hand, is that it?"

Steve chuckled. "You got it. It's something I never even thought of before, and that kinda pisses me off. It could have been a good lead."

"Hey," Dan said almost gently, "there are six of us working on this, Steve, and _nobody_ thought of it, so don't be so hard on yourself. What you've come up with in just the past few hours is amazing. I'm starting to feel really good about this and I think you should too."

"Oh, I do, believe me, it's just… every day that we spend working on this is another day that Mike has to spend behind bars, and that just…" He cleared his throat and a silence stretched out between them.

"Yeah, ah, listen, you get a good night's sleep and I'll get in touch with the others tonight and we'll get together first thing in the morning and start to go through everything again. I'm gonna put in for some time off and I think that the others are too; well, Dan and Norm anyway. I don't think Devitt'd like it too much if Lee and Bill want time off too, so it may be down to just three of us on this full-time."

"Yeah, that sounds good. Why don't you give me a call tomorrow night, after 9 my time. I should be here and we can go over things again. Here's the number…"

After hanging up, Steve sat back on the bed, the back of his head against the pillow he had propped up against the headboard. He wanted so badly to pick up the phone again and call Jeannie, to give her some hope, but he knew it was too early and there were still too many unanswered questions. Besides, he thought, as Rogers said, there could be a very innocent and legitimate reason behind Gordon Mercer's presence in Philadelphia and the mysterious bandaged hand.

But he didn't think so.

# # # # #

Mike had been right; sleep had not come easily. In fact, it had not come at all.

He had lain there with his eyes closed as eventually the other residents of the dormitory had returned and, noisily, crawled into their bunks before lights out. As usual there were window-rattling snores, the ever-present squeaks of bedsprings being tested as their occupants tossed and turned, and the measured footfalls of the heavily-armed guards as they made their rounds, counting heads and confirming every bunk was occupied.

Eventually he opened his eyes and stared into the semi-darkness above the bed. Despite the pain, he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, shakily. He bit his trembling lower lip. He covered his eyes with his right hand, but he couldn't stop the tears that had welled up and were now streaming silently down his temples onto the bed.


	24. Chapter 24

Philadelphia Detective Sergeant Stan Rogers watched as Steve cut a corner off the Stuffed Challah French Toast with his fork and, with raised eyebrows and a grin, stuffed it into his mouth. The smile disappeared as the Californian chewed, his brow furrowing. Rogers tensed and leaned forward.

Swallowing, Steve leaned back slightly, frowning. He put the fork down, raised the cloth napkin to wipe his mouth, then picked up the cup of coffee and took a sip. Rogers waited.

Finally, as if taking pity on the large man with the now very concerned look, Steve smiled and pointed at the plate in front of him. "That is the best French toast I've ever had, bar none."

His craggy face breaking into a wide grin, Rogers growled playfully and pretended to swat the younger man. The gesture reminded Steve so much of Mike that he froze momentarily, pulling away, the smile disappearing. Rogers paused, a look of contrition crossing his face.

"Sorry," Steve said quickly, suddenly angry at himself for wrecking the convivial atmosphere they had begun the night before and had continued that morning when Rogers picked him up at the hotel. "it's just… Mike used to do that with me," he demonstrated by raising his hand as if to slap, "and it just brought back some memories… good memories. It was just the… I don't know, the unexpectedness of it. Sorry."

"Hey, no need to apologize. I've had some great partners over the years, I know what it's like."

Steve nodded, smiling, "Yeah." He picked up the fork again and cut off another piece of French toast.

Rogers picked up a small slice of his Huevos Rancheros, saluting with his fork before popping it into his mouth.

Steve swallowed. "So I talked to Mike's partner last night – his current partner – and brought him up to speed on everything." He took another bite. "I gave him a list of all the stuff I want them to check into and go over again, like the flight manifests I told you about and the phone logs to and from San Quentin. And I also asked him to contact all the hospitals and private practice doctors who could treat a broken hand. It's a lot of work and I'm sure it's gonna take a few days, but there are five of them on it so…" he said between bites.

Rogers nodded in appreciation as he put his coffee cup down. "That _is_ a lot of work even for five guys, especially when they've got other cases too."

Swallowing, Steve grinned. "Three of them are taking some time off."

"Ah," the Philly detective said with a chuckle and a knowing wink. "Well, good for them. So, just so's you don't show us up, I put in an early morning call to a colleague of mine – he's an early riser too, by the way – and he knows a detective in our 12th District whose brother, believe it or not, is a detective in Hagerstown."

"Seriously?"

"Would I lie?" Rogers asked with a smirk, a chuckle and raised eyebrows as he popped another piece of his fried eggs into his mouth.

"Well, I don't know, I haven't known you that long," Steve retorted with a matching smirk and bobbing eyebrows.

"You're a quick one, you are," the large detective laughed. "Anyway, I thought we could give the Hagerstown dick a call and see if we can use their services and maybe drive up there tomorrow and see what we can dig up on this Mercer guy and his travel activities in the past couple of months."

Steve was staring at him in shocked amusement. Rogers stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. "What?"

The criminology professor started to laugh. "Okay, any similarity to Mike just disappeared. He would never, ever refer to another detective as a 'dick'."

Rogers' belly laugh started slowly and built. Before it got too out of control, he chortled, "Hey, what can I say? I love old movies, _you dirty rat_ …"

# # # # #

Detective Milo Drabinsky was a tall, blond, broad-shouldered behemoth and, standing between him and Rogers, Steve felt like a ten-year-old.

They had hit the road right after getting confirmation from the Philadelphia 12th District detective that the cops up there, and his brother in particular, had offered their services.

Now, standing in the Homicide Bureau of the Hagerstown Police Department, Steve swallowed an embarrassed smile and shook Drabinsky's hand. "Detective, thank you so much for agreeing to help us."

With a broad grin, Drabinsky pumped Steve's hand. "Hey, anything for the thin blue line. And my brother asked, so what could I do? He's older than me." His unexpectedly high-pitched laugh was infectious. "So, I hear that you're trying to get your old partner out of the slammer. What the hell happened?"

Steve cocked his head and sighed. "Damned if I know and that's what I'm trying to find out." He took the next few minutes to bring Drabinsky up to speed, sharing with the Hagerstown detective as much as he felt necessary.

By the time he finished, Drabinsky was sitting on the corner of his desk, his brow furrowed and his mouth slightly open. "Well, son of a bitch… so you really think he might be covering for this Gordon Mercer?"

Steve nodded with a facial shrug. "Well, that's what I'm starting to think and that's what I'm hoping. And what I really need is for you guys to help me prove it."

"But… why?" Drabinsky asked, still frowning.

"Well, I gave it a lot of thought last night after I found out about Mercer being in Philly at his ex-wife's place recently. And, really, the only thing I can come up with is…" he sighed, not wanting to admit this even to himself, "that maybe they both found out that Cord was getting released and… I don't know… they killed him together..." He almost couldn't believe those words were coming from his mouth. "But I really can't come to grips with that, you know… I want to believe that Mike had nothing to do with it."

Drabinsky nodded gravely and looked at Rogers. He really didn't know what to say; the pain the younger man was feeling was so obvious to them both.

"Well, if there's anything we can do to help, we're gonna do it." He stood and crossed around to the other side of his desk. "Just so you know, as soon as I received Stan's call yesterday, I went to work." Sitting, he opened a file that was already on the desk and began to read. "Gordon Allan Mercer was born on January 25, 1931 in Baltimore, Maryland, which makes him forty-eight. And which could also explain why he moved back to this area after his divorce. He works for an accounting firm here in Hagersville, ah, Spencer Finegold, and he's been with them for over twenty years.

"He drives a '69 Olds Cutlass, gold, and owns his house outright. He never remarried. He has no criminal record and the only blemish on his otherwise stellar reputation is a grand total of three parking tickets… ever. If you want to talk about someone flying under the radar, this would be the guy."

"Good god," Steve exhaled, slightly frustrated, "it sounds like you're reading the biography of Elwood P. Dowd."

"Exactly," Drabinsky nodded, "except there's no reports of him talking to an invisible rabbit."

Rogers laughed and Steve chuckled and hung his head. "And it sure doesn't sound like the life history of someone who would suddenly beat a man to death, does it?"

Drabinsky sighed heavily. "Grief can do strange things to people. You never know…"

"Yeah," Rogers said quietly and Steve looked at him, frowning. The Philadelphia detective's gaze was far away. There was obvious pain there as well, but digging deeper would be for another time and another place, if at all.

"So," Drabinsky said, bringing them back to the present, "what do you want to do about Mercer? You want us to bring him in and talk to him?"

"No, god no," Steve said quickly. "We don't have anything to go on right now except the neighbors in Philly who said they are a hundred percent positive it was him around his ex-wife's house about two months ago, with a bandaged right hand. They're not sure if it was a cast, but it could've been. And that's it – that's all we have. I want to get a lot more on him before we confront him, and I have a feeling that's going to take some time.

"So, actually, the only thing I want to do today is have a talk on the QT with his employer, to see if he was away during the time in question, mid-September, and – if you guys can track down his doctor, Milo," he nodded at Drabinsky, "I'd like to talk to him as well about Mercer's hand." He smiled at both large men. "Is that possible, do you think?"

Drabinsky looked at Rogers and nodded. "I think we can do that. I know where Spencer, Finegold is. What say I give them a call and set up a meeting with the boss or head of personnel or whoever can give us the info, make sure they know it's official and confidential, and then you and Stan can go over and do the interview? For sure no one will recognize either of you in this town, right?"

"Sounds good," Rogers nodded.

"And while you're doing that, hopefully we can track down Mercer's doctor and I can let you know where that office is too."

"I wouldn't mind swinging by his house as well. I know that won't tell us anything, I just want to see where he lives, you know…" Steve added in a hopeful tone. "We have the address, just need directions."

"Oh, I can give you directions, no problem."

Steve smiled at the two detectives. "That's great – let's get to work."

# # # # #

"Mr. Stangis, I'm Detective Sergeant Stan Rogers of the Philadelphia PD, and this is Steve Keller from San Francisco." Both visitors shook hands with the small, balding, bespectacled middle-aged personnel manager of Spencer, Finegold. He gestured towards the black leather chairs opposite his desk and they all sat, Rogers pocketing his badge and I.D. as he did.

Strangis put his right middle finger against the bridge of his silver-rimmed glasses and pushed them back into place, clearing his throat nervously as he opened the personnel file on the desk in front of him.

"Yes, um, you require some information about one of our accountants – Gordon Mercer?"

"Yes, that's right," Steve answered pleasantly. He knew that Strangis had only been told that some information was needed about Mercer but was not given any details. "We need to know if Mr. Mercer took a leave of absence anytime mid September into early October of this year?"

Strangis nodded, flipping through several pages of the file. "That sounds quite plausible," he said pleasantly as he looked for the relevant page, "I remember he was wearing a small cast on his hand around that time. I think he said something about taking a road trip up into the mountains," he looked up and smiled at Steve, "the Blue Ridge, and he broke his hand fixing a tire… car fell off the jack or something." He chuckled. "Ah, here it is," he paused as he read the page. "Yes, umh-humh, he was off for six business days, from Friday, September14th through to the 21st. He was back in the office on the 24th." He looked up and smiled. "Does that help?"

# # # # #

Steve leaned his head back against the headrest in the dark green sedan and closed his eyes. His heart was pounding; it felt like it had been since Strangis had confirmed that Gordon Mercer was indeed out of town when Leonard Cord was beaten to death.

He could hear Rogers talking into the mic on the police radio, making notes while he listened, but it was all a meaningless babble; he couldn't concentrate. The mic was hung up with a clunk and he could hear Rogers' deep chuckle.

"You still with me? Looks like you zoned out there for a minute."

Shaking his head rapidly, Steve focused on the grinning Philadelphia detective. "Sorry, I… ah, it just feels like another nail in the coffin… or _out_ of the coffin, in this case, I guess."

Rogers' chuckle turned into a full-throated laugh. "Then let's keep pulling. In case you weren't paying attention, they got the name of Mercer's doctor. I have the address and directions." He started the car and pulled away from the curb. "You know," he continued, trying to sound conversational, "there's something you told me about all this that keeps bugging me."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"Well, if Mercer _did_ beat Cord to death, and that's how he injured his hand, and Mike _didn't_ beat him to death, how do you explain your partner's cut and bruised hand and the broken knuckle?"

Steve, who was staring straight through the windshield, swallowed heavily. "Yeah," he said softly, "that's been worrying me too. And I have no idea."


	25. Chapter 25

His legs crossed, his right foot keeping time to unheard music, Steve was leaning back in the not quite comfortable chair and studying the waiting room walls once again. They hadn't changed since he'd done so just a few minutes before. He blew out a deeply held breath between his lips.

"You sound like a bored horse," Rogers chuckled, flipping another page in the year-old Time magazine he was perusing.

"I am a bored horse," Steve said under his breath, hoping the elderly lady sitting across from him hadn't heard. He shot his cuff and glanced at his watch again. It had been almost a half hour since they'd entered the doctor's office, Rogers identifying them and flashing his badge and I.D. and requesting a meeting with the doctor.

His nurse, an older woman who resembled Nurse Ratched somewhat, told them the doctor was with a patient and they would have to wait until he was finished.

"Yes, ma'am," Rogers said with a cordial nod as he turned away from the counter and started towards the chairs, a confused and frowning Steve in his wake. "I had a drill sergeant that looked like her; I'm not going to argue, are you? Besides, it's not like we're on the clock, right?"

After a moment of silence and a grunt of agreement, Steve dropped down onto a chair, sat back, stretched his legs out and laced his fingers over his stomach.

That was twenty-seven minutes ago. Now he was getting antsy. Rogers glanced over and chuckled again.

They could hear muted voices in the interior hallway and then weird shapes through the opaque glass in the door beside the nurse's counter. The door opened and a deep male voice could be heard. "…and you just keep taking those antibiotics until the bottle is empty. That means you have to take them all, okay? No stopping just because you feel better, Mr. Ross, remember?"

An old man with a walking cane came into view, followed by a middle-aged man in a white coat and with a surprisingly large paunch.

"Oh, I promise, Doctor, I promise," the old man assured as he shuffled into the waiting room. "I'll see you next week."

The doctor looked at the two newcomers, realizing immediately they were not patients, and closed the door. They could hear him ask the nurse who they were and heard her reply. The door opened again and he popped his head around the corner. He smiled. "Gentlemen, if you'd like to come this way."

Both detectives got up and started to follow. When they entered the inner office, he closed the door behind them then gestured towards the two guest chairs as he headed for the large padded chair behind the desk. "What can I do you for, Detectives?"

Steve opened his mouth to explain that he wasn't actually a detective anymore but Rogers cut him off, identifying them again before saying, "Doctor Irwin, we need some information on one of your patients. Now before you cite doctor-patient privilege, we're not asking for anything illegal or even anything borderline." He stopped to take a breath and Steve took over.

"Doctor Irwin, a man's life is at stake here; a close friend of mine and my former partner. We're not asking you to breach any kind of confidentiality, we're only asking for confirmation on something. That's all."

Irwin looked from one 'detective' to the other, studying them. Then, with a slight nod, he leaned forward and put both forearms on the desk. "Which one of my patients are you talking about?"

"Gordon Mercer," Rogers said.

His face registering no reaction, Irwin punched a button on his phone. "Mary, could you bring me Gordon Mercer's file, please."

" _Yes, sir."_

"Well, while we wait for that to happen, what is it you need from me and I'll see if I feel comfortable answering your questions or not?"

Rogers chuckled, nodding through a smile. "All right. We've been told that Mr. Mercer broke his right hand sometime in mid to late September, and we just want to confirm that."

Irwin sat back and frowned. "Yes, yes, I believe he did. I'm not sure the exact date – that'll be in the file, but that sounds about right."

"So you remember?" Steve said, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to rise.

"Yes, if I remember correctly, I think he said he did it changing a tire… somewhere up on the Blue Ridge Mountains, I think. Said the car fell off the jack and the loose tire landed on his hand."

"What were the extent of his injuries, do you remember?"

"Well, I have to check the file to be sure, but I think he had non-displaced fractures of the index and middle metacarpal bones, and he had cuts and bruises on all the knuckles of his right hand. He said his hand was under the tire when it hit the ground."

The door opened and the nurse entered, handing a file folder to the doctor and smiling at his guests. "Thanks, Mary," the doctor said to her retreating back. He opened the folder; the form he was looking for was right on top. "Let's see here," he mumbled, scanning the form, "ah, yes, I was right, those were his injuries. And that date was…Tuesday, September 18th. Is that the information you were looking for?"

Both detectives smiled. "Yes… yes, thank you," Rogers nodded, glancing at Steve with a warning look, then continuing quickly, "Um, do you remember, when he came in, was his hand already bandaged? I mean, did it look like he had seen a doctor already?"

"Do you mean did the bandage look like it was professionally applied?" Both Steve and Rogers nodded. "Well, as a matter of fact, he told me it happened somewhere near Roanoke, Virginia and he took himself to the emergency room of the Memorial Hospital there. They just taped his hand up but when he was driving back he thought maybe they'd missed something and that he felt he had broken his hand. I took an x-ray here and he was right." He looked at both of his guests with raised eyebrows and a curt nod.

# # # # #

"How far is it from here to Roanoke?" Steve asked as they got into the car.

"Oh, about three-and-a-half, four hours. Depends on the weather this time of year." Rogers looked at Steve as he put the key in the ignition. "You know, we don't have to _go_ there – we can just _call_ the hospital."

Steve stared at the older man with an exasperated sigh. "I know that," he said pedantically, "and we will, I just meant, how long would it take to drive and does it make for a good alibi?"

Rogers chuckled as he turned the engine on and pulled out into traffic. "Sure, a lot of people go down to the mountains, some of them almost every weekend. It's not out of the question."

"Hmmm," Steve grunted as he sat back, laying his head against the seat, "I hope the guys back home can find some record of him visiting a hospital or a doctor there."

"Yeah, but if Roanoke confirms, then you're gonna have to start looking elsewhere, right?"

"Right." Steve's sigh was long and heartfelt. "Hey, what was that look about? The one you shot me in Irwin's office after he confirmed the date?"

Rogers thought for a few seconds then brightened. "Oh, that? Sorry, I knew you were suddenly on tenterhooks and I didn't want you asking Irwin if he thought those injuries could be caused by a fistfight. Didn't want to give him anything to pass along to Mercer, should he decide to. I know we told him this was confidential and he agreed but, hey, we don't know if these two have a… relationship outside of doctor-patient, do we?" He chuckled. "Besides, that's something you can ask your coroner back in 'Fris-…. Sorry, San Francisco…" The belly laugh filled the car once again.

# # # # #

"Yes, yes, that would be sometime on Monday, September 17th… yes, of _this_ year…" Rogers put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone on Drabinsky's desk, growling and rolling his eyes; Steve chuckled. "Yes… yes, from Hagerstown, Maryland… Gordon Mercer – M-E-R-C-E-R…" He put his hand on the mouthpiece again, saying sotto voce, _"As in Johnny Mercer, the guy who wrote 'Moon River."_

Laughing, Steve glanced around the bustling office. For a small city, Hagerstown had a busy police department. Almost all the desks were manned and everyone seemed to be on a phone. He made a mental note that if the chief had a spare moment while he was in town, he would love to talk to him about small city policing; it was something he might be able to incorporate into his courses and lectures.

"They're checking," Rogers whispered, his hand still over the mouthpiece. "So, when we finish here, wanna run over to Mercer's house and do a drive-by?"

"Sounds good to –"

"Yes," Rogers said suddenly, taking his hand off the handset, "yes… Okay, thank you very much. We really appreciate it." He hung up slowly, looking at the phone, and a smile gradually appeared.

Steve tensed and leaned forward. Rogers looked up and met his eyes. "They have no record of a Gordon Mercer from Hagerstown or anywhere else, on that day or ever." His smile turned into a grin. "The bastard lied."

# # # # #

"So, yeah, Dan, I want you guys to really concentrate on the hospitals and the doctors tomorrow, okay? We know he lied about being in the Blue Ridge Mountains – well, at least we know he lied about going to the Roanoke hospital to get his hand bandaged."

" _So that means, we hope, that he got it looked at here. The son-of-a-bitch. God, I want this guy, Steve. I'll call the fellas as soon as I hang up from you. Hey, you said you and Rogers went by Mercer's house?"_

"Yeah, nothing there. It's just a house… well-kept, nothing stands out. We didn't want to talk to any of the neighbors, not yet anyway 'cause we don't know which ones would tell him and we don't want to tip our hand just yet, of course. Too many unanswered questions before we take that step."

" _Yeah, you're right."_

"Hey, have you heard from Jeannie? She might have called me but because I've been out of town…"

" _Yeah, actually, ah, she called me last night."_

"Has she heard from Mike?"

" _Yep, she says he called her Saturday night and he sounded good. He promised to call back tonight so I expect to hear from her again tomorrow."_

"He hasn't called you?"

" _No… no, I think he's too embarrassed to… I think he feels he let me down, you know… you too."_

"Yeah… yeah. Well, you know what we have to do, we gotta get him outa there and the sooner the better."

" _Yeah, well, we will. I'm finally starting to feel a little better about all of this, and I can hardly wait to tell the guys what you've uncovered out there."_

"Yeah, well, I better get going. Stan and I are going out for dinner here in Hagerstown with the local detective we worked with and the chief, and then we're going to head back to Philly. I'm flying out early afternoon so I should be back in The City mid-afternoon."

" _You need a pick-up?"_

"No, I left my car in the lot. But I'm probably gonna go straight home so I'll call you tomorrow night and we can all meet the next day. But if you guys come up with something, anything, leave a message at my place and I'll get back to you right away." He paused and took a deep breath. "I'm beginning to get a good feeling about this Dan, I really am."

" _Me too, Steve, me too."_

"Say hi to the guys for me and have a good night and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

" _You too. 'Bye."_

Steve hung up the phone on Rogers desk and sat silently for several long seconds. He looked at the date on the small calendar on the corner of the desk. The coming Thursday, the day after tomorrow, was Thanksgiving. He'd had no idea and, if he was honest with himself, he didn't care.

There was only one thing on his mind right now. He had to get Mike out of prison, and he had to do it before Christmas.


	26. Chapter 26

_It never fails,_ he thought as he watched the dark liquid in the clear plastic cup begin to slosh back and forth, threatening to spill all over the tray table. _Turbulence always seems to hit just after the beverage service comes by._ He picked the cup up, holding it a few inches above the table, compensating for the bucking and rolling of the plane.

He glanced out the window; through the bright white clouds he could see snatches of the northernmost tip of the Mojave dessert. He would be home soon.

The cup still in his hand, he leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes. It had been a busy few days in the east, and sleep had come at a premium. Things seemed to be finally falling their way in this investigation and he found it hard to turn his brain off, no matter how tired he was becoming.

He sighed loudly then sat perfectly still. He felt a hand on his forearm and opened his eyes to see his seatmate, an older grey-haired woman with a kindly face, staring at him in concern.

"I'm sorry," she began apologetically, "but does turbulence make you nervous?"

He stared at her, momentarily confused, then smiled with a short laugh. "Oh, ah, no, ma'am, ah, no, it doesn't. I was just thinking about something else."

"Oh, I see," she said, nodding with a relieved smile. She winked at him. "It doesn't bother me either. I always think, well, if it's my time to go, at least I'll be going with a lot of other people."

His eyes widened slightly and there was a brief pause before he nodded. "Ah, a good point… I never thought of it like that."

She patted his arm. "You go back to your thinking and I'll leave you alone." She turned back towards the small movie screen hanging in the aisle a few rows ahead and put her earplugs back in.

Smiling, he took a sip of his Coke then put the cup on the table. The turbulence had passed. He laid his head back again and closed his eyes.

If Gordon Mercer actually was the person who beat Leonard Cord to death, they still had a long way to go before they could put a solid and unshakeable case together. He knew they would get only one shot to prove that Mike Stone was innocent and that someone else had actually committed the crime. They couldn't afford to make any mistakes. The petition for Mike's release and for charges to be brought against Gordon Mercer, for the same crime, had to be beyond reproach; not just airtight but hermetically sealed.

Stan Rogers was going to continue to work the investigation from his end. He and Milo Drabinsky would keep tabs on both Gordon and Eleanor Mercer, and Rogers was going to check firearms purchases in both Pennsylvania and Maryland, and perhaps beyond. He had postulated, probably correctly, that a man of Mercer's stature would perhaps need the persuasive power of a firearm to control a man the size of Leonard Cord. It seemed a very perceptive suspicion and Steve was more than impressed and pleased with the contribution from the Philadelphia detective.

He sighed once more, opening his eyes and looking out the window. South, he knew; he was looking south. Somewhere, beyond the horizon but no doubt under the same clouds, was the Correctional Institution at Tehachapi. He wondered how his old partner was doing.

# # # # #

Mike slowly pushed the book cart between the shelves. He still wasn't supposed to be lifting the heavy books, but if he used his right arm and gritted his teeth, the ache in his chest wasn't too bad. Besides, most of the books were fairly light.

He had seen but hadn't really talked to Ben Driscoll since Sunday dinner. The younger man was working highway clean-up detail and spent long hours away from the institution. They had managed to exchange a few words in the mess hall during morning and evening meals.

So Mike had kept to himself, working in the library during the day, then retiring to his bunk after dinner, mostly to read, when he could get his mind to concentrate long enough.

His two most recent phone calls to Jeannie had been particularly draining. He was trying so hard to project positivity when all he really wanted to do was cry, tell her how much he missed her and beg her forgiveness. But he couldn't do that, he knew. He couldn't put the burden of his guilt onto his only child, to make her have to live with worry and fear for the next three years.

He couldn't ruin her life too.

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, he opened his eyes, picked up another heavy tome and put it on the shelf.

# # # # #

Steve closed the front door behind him, let the flight bag fall to the floor, tossed his keys on the side table, then crossed the room, pulling off his tie as he dropped heavily onto the sofa. He glanced at the answering machine. A red _'23'_ was flashing.

With an annoyed sigh, he allowed the back of his head to flop onto the couch; this was going to take awhile. He pressed Play, picked up the pad and pen on the small table and began to take notes.

Most of the messages were from students and fellow faculty members plus a couple of hang-ups. _"Twenty-five"_ came the mechanical voice. He had put the pen down and was rolling up his right sleeve when Dan Robbins' voice came out of the small machine.

" _Steve, call me the second you get in. We've got something. I'm in the office."_

Sitting bolt upright, his sleeve forgotten, Steve picked up the black phone and balanced it on his knee as he dialed the number he knew he would never forget. "Come on, come on," he muttered impatiently as he waited for the line to connect then he heard the click of an answered phone.

"Homicide, Inspector Robbins."

"Dan, it's Steve –"

"Oh, great, yeah, um, give me a second," Dan said quickly, and suddenly the line went dead; he knew he had been put on hold.

He barely had time to pull the handset away from his ear and glare at it in annoyance when there was another click and Dan said quickly, "Sorry about that, I wanted to take the call in Mike's – I mean, Roy's office. He's not here."

"What have you got?"

"Well, believe it or not, we think we have Gordon Mercer flying from Washington to here and back again."

"What do you mean you _think?_ "

"Okay, so what happened is, Dan and Bill were working on the list again and they found some names that they'd flagged but no Mercer. Then Dan had the brilliant idea of finding out what Mercer's mother's maiden name was – it's Fitzgerald, by the way – and one of the names that was flagged was an Allan Fitzgerald." Dan paused, letting the information sink in.

Eventually Steve said softly, "Mercer's middle name is Allan, isn't it?"

He could almost hear Dan's smile over the phone. "You bet it is."

"Holy shit," Steve breathed into the mouthpiece, his heart suddenly starting to pound.

"Okay, so," Dan finally continued, "we don't have confirmation yet that it _is_ Gordon Mercer, but it's a place to start. And right now we're kind of at a loss on how to confirm it… I mean, it was two months ago, no one is going to remember what a passenger looked like, especially if he was trying to remain anonymous."

"But that also means, right, that he has another I.D. So that means that maybe all this is a lot more calculated than we first thought." A silence settled over them as they both took a few seconds to take in this new wrinkle. "I, ah, I'm gonna have to call the guys back in Philly and Hagerstown and see if they can use their snitches and CI's to find out if Mercer used the services of a known counterfeiter."

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

Steve exhaled loudly. "Holy shit, Dan," he said again, "that's great, that's brilliant. Good work."

"Hey, it was Dan's idea but, yeah, another nail, eh?"

Steve laughed.

"What?"

"Ah, nothing… it's just the same analogy I used yesterday, but with a different twist. I'll explain when I see you."

"Okay," Dan said slowly, chuckling. "So, ah, so when's that gonna be?"

Steve sighed. "Well, I kinda gotta show up at Berkeley tomorrow or my job could be in jeopardy," he explained, only half in jest, "but I hope to get out by four and I can probably get into The City by five. Can you get the guys together, well, those that can, and we can go over what we've all come up with?"

"Steve, I know you've been busy, and I don't know how to break this to you, but tomorrow's Thanksgiving. So you won't have any classes or lectures, I can pretty well guarantee that," Dan chuckled.

Steve had let his head drop back against the couch again. "Damn it, I totally forgot. Shit." He sighed heavily. "And that means that we're not going to get anything from any government agency until at least Monday now…" His frustration was easy to hear on the other end of the line.

"Yeah," Mike's partner said slowly. "Well, I tell you what. Dan said Bonnie's invited all of us, well, those of us without a wife or a girlfriend or a significant other, over for dinner tomorrow. So that would be you, me and Norm. Maybe the four of us can put our heads together for a few minutes after dinner and then everyone can get together on Friday. How does that sound?"

Steve was quiet for so long that Dan eventually ventured, "Hey, are you still there?"

"Um… ah, yeah Hey, Dan… I think I have a better idea…"

"Okay, what's that?"

Steve cleared his throat. "Why don't, ah… why don't you and I drive down to Tehachapi tomorrow? Prisoners are allowed visits on Thanksgiving… "

"Do you think Mike put us on his contact list? He sounded like he didn't want to see us while he was in –"

"Yeah, we're on his list, I'll guarantee it. And your badge'll get us in tomorrow, even though we haven't booked ahead."

"But it's Thanks-"

"I know, I know," Steve cut him off, "it's Thanksgiving and the place'll be packed… But I want to take the chance… don't you?"

The silence was now coming from Dan's end of the line. "Yeah… yeah… I'd like to take that chance."

Steve nodded to himself, a warm smile lighting his face. "Okay, so why don't I pick you up –"

"Steve," Dan interrupted, "nothing against your Porsche, man, but there's more room in my Jeep and, besides, I'm more rested than you are. Why don't you get your ass over here around 6 or a little later and we can hit the road right away. The sooner we get there, the better our chances of getting to see him, right?"

"Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. Look, ah, I'm gonna go to bed right now, I'm beat. Hey, ah, thanks for the good news about 'Allan Fitzgerald' – I needed to hear that, I really did. I know we got some potentially great leads back east, but I had a lot of time to just… think, you know, on the plane. And all I could see was Mike lying in that hospital bed, telling me to forget everything and just get on with our lives and I, ah… I can't live with that and I know you can't either."

# # # # #

It was Thanksgiving. All that meant to him was he didn't have to work in the library and they would be serving some kind of turkey product for dinner that night. It was a 'day off'; he would have loved to be outside watching basketball but it had decided to rain for the first time in over a month and the temperature was hovering near 50.

So he stayed on his bunk, trying to read _'Shogun'_ , watching as various and sundry dorm-mates were summoned to the large visitors room in the main building. The mood in the entire facility was upbeat for a change.

He had just returned to his bunk after lunch and was stretched out, the large paperback of the James Clavell novel in his hands, when one of the guards, Mackey, appeared at the entrance to the low-walled, four-bunk cubicle and cleared his throat.

Mike looked up, surprised. He slipped the bookmark, which had been lying on his chest, between the pages as he sat up, tossing the paperback on the blanket.

"Mike," Mackey said cordially with a nod, which the inmate returned. "I don't know if you were expecting anyone but, ah, you have visitors."

Mike frowned. "What?"

"Yeah," Mackey nodded with a shrug, "there's two younger guys in the visitors room for you. They've been waiting since about 10 o'clock. It's a zoo out there, but they finally got a table."

The stunned inmate covered his mouth with his hand, his gaze unfocusing. He didn't move for several seconds then looked up at Mackey and nodded, getting slowly to his feet. As he followed the guard out of the dormitory towards the main building, he began to shake.


	27. Chapter 27

The babble of voices grew increasingly louder the closer he got to the visiting room. The trembling had become so severe that he balled his hands into fists and took deep breaths, despite the pain, to try to slow his rapidly beating heart.

He followed Mackey through the corridor to the door of the visiting room; there was a short line-up of inmates waiting their turn at the tables. Mackey spoke briefly to the guard at the door then, with an almost encouraging nod at Mike, went back the way they had come.

The guard stepped into the large room, nodded to himself and took a step back. He looked at Mike, who stepped forward, then pointed at a table. "You can go on in," he said.

It was a room Mike hadn't been in yet and, though he had read the rules and knew what to do from the other side of the table, he had never been the recipient of a prison visit. It was a totally different experience on the flip side of the coin.

There were six large metal tables in the grey-walled, windowless room; the inmates sat in the solitary chair on the near side, while three chairs were lined up opposite. Four heavily armed guards stood against the walls, their eyes constantly scanning the room and its occupants.

Mike saw them from the door; they were both looking at him as he appeared. Blood began to pound in his ears as he slowly crossed the room, trying to contain the panoply of emotions that were coursing through him, willing his face to remain impassive.

Both younger men sat to attention, both faces registering their relief and pleasure, Dan's a little more than his companion. Steve's brow was furrowed slightly, as if he was unsure how the older man would react to seeing them.

The room was noisy; there were quite a few excited children, their high-pitched voices cutting through the low drone of the adults. Mike approached the table and pulled the chair out, sitting and putting his forearms on the table. He took a deep breath, staring at the two smiling younger men, unable to mask the affection in his own eyes.

"I never expected to see you guys here today," he said just loud enough to be heard above the din.

Dan glanced at Steve, whose stare had never left his former partner's face. His smile was subtle but the relief was palpable. "I haven't missed a Thanksgiving with you since we started working together; why would this year be any different?"

Mike's face crumpled briefly then the small grateful smile was back. "It's good to see you both," he said softly, his attention turning to Dan. "How are you doing?"

The young inspector smiled warmly. "I'm doing okay. How are you? Really?"

Mike frowned slightly, his eyes snapping to Steve, who lifted his chin, as if challenging the older man. "I told him. He needed to know. But he's the only one."

Mike stared at him for several seconds without moving, then slowly dropped his head slightly, closed his eyes and nodded. "Okay… I understand." He looked back up at Dan and his smile was affectionate. "I'm okay, Daniel. It looked and sounded a lot worse than it actually was. They only kept me in the hospital five days, and I'm even back to work in the library."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"So am I," Mike chuckled, glancing back and forth between the two. "Have either of you talked to Jeannie?"

"Yeah," Dan said, nodding, "yeah, she called me after she talked to you a few days ago. She sounds good, but I know she's worried about you."

Mike frowned, his gaze focusing on Steve as he responded, "I know she is, but she doesn't have to… I told her I was settling in here just fine."

"She's your daughter, Mike, of course she's going to worry," Dan said with a gentle chuckle, frowning as he looked from his partner to Steve and back again. They were staring at each other, Mike with a hint of trepidation and Steve in defiance.

Finally, still looking at Steve, Mike said, "Nothing against you, Dan, but why would Jeannie call you and not him?"

Dan sat back quickly, suddenly realizing there was something going on here that he hadn't cottoned on to yet. "Um, ah, I don't know… I guess she just, ah…"

"I was out of town," Steve said simply, returning the hard stare without blinking.

"Oh? Where were you?" Mike's voice had taken on a flat tone with a hard suspicious edge, just like when he was questioning a suspect who was being a little less than truthful and forthcoming.

Smiling confidently, Steve leaned forward, placing his own forearms on the table. "I flew back east for a few days. Philadelphia."

Mike froze momentarily. He swallowed before leaning back slightly. "Really? Never been there myself. Was it business or pleasure?"

Steve's smile got a little wider. "Business actually. Personal business."

"Well, I hope it was successful." Mike tried to sound casual but the two younger men knew him too well; they both knew this new information had greatly disturbed him.

With a tilt of his head and a subtle nod, Steve sat back. "Oh yeah, I think it was very successful."

Their stares still locked, a tense silence settled over the table. Dan, his eyes snapping from one to the other, finally cleared his throat. "So, ah, Mike, whatever happened to the other guys who got… attacked…?"

Mike continued to stare at his former partner for several long seconds; Dan wasn't sure his question had been heard. Then the older man sat back, his blue eyes turning towards him and he smiled. "Well, last I heard, the guard is going to be in the hospital for another couple of weeks before they send him home, but the con… he was lucky. He didn't suffer any permanent damage and he's getting out next week but they are going to ship him to another facility somewhere, maybe out of state."

"Well, that's good news for you at least, not having to worry about him around, right?" Dan was trying to sound optimistic, and steer the conversation away from where he thought it was headed. Steve was still staring boldly at his former partner, as if waiting for another comment or question.

Mike nodded, "Yeah, I guess you're right, Daniel, I guess you're right. So, ah, how are things in Homicide? I hear Roy's taken over for me."

"Yeah," Dan chuckled, "and he's not too happy about it. He keeps pressing Rudy and the brass to assign someone permanently so he can get back behind his desk."

Mike laughed, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, Roy discovered he loved the desk when he got that promotion… I never could understand that myself but…" He shrugged. "How are _you_ doing, Dan? Really?"

The younger man's smile wavered and he cleared his throat. "Well, I, ah, I miss not working with you," he said gently, a catch in his throat, "but it's going okay. I'm working more and more with Landry; he's turning out to be a pretty good detective." Landry had been promoted to Homicide after Steve had retired.

"I'm glad to hear that. How is everybody else doing?"

"Oh, they're doing fine. Art is retiring next year and…"

Steve continued to stare at his former partner, the conversation fading into the cacophony of the room as he thought over all the questions that were sitting on the tip of his tongue, questions he knew he didn't dare ask. At least not right now. It was plain to see that the older man hadn't changed his mind about anything.

Mike listened while Dan filled him in on what had been happening in his beloved Homicide bureau but he was well aware that Steve's eyes hadn't left his face. He knew his former partner was sitting on his exasperation, wanting so badly to ask him again about what happened on and around the night Leonard Cord was murdered.

' _Philadelphia.'_ The name of the eastern city kept racing through his brain. It could only mean one thing: that Steve was aware of the Mercers, and he wanted Mike to know it. But exactly how much did he know?

He was vaguely aware of Dan asking him a question. His shook his head slightly. "Ah, sorry, what?" he asked with a disarming smile, shooting a glance at Steve, afraid he was caught out. The younger man's expression didn't change.

"Oh, ah, I was just wondering how the food was here?" Dan said with a shrug. He knew it was a lame question but he was doing everything he could to keep the almost one-sided conversation alive. He was well aware of the tension between the former partners, and was equally aware that there was nothing he could do about it.

"Oh, sometimes it's more edible than at other times. I think breakfast is the least objectionable. And today the rumor is we're getting some kind of turkey… thing for dinner." He shrugged with a gentle chuckle. "Well, at least I don't have to worry about putting on those unwanted pounds. But we can buy snacks and stuff from the commissary, so that helps."

Dan laughed amiably, and Mike hung his head, continuing to chuckle. Another strained silence, all the more jarring because of the high spirits in the rest of the room, briefly settled over the table before Mike looked from Dan to Steve, his smile disappearing. "It's great to see you both… I'm glad you came…" he said quietly, inhaling deeply before biting his bottom lip.

Dan smiled warmly. Steve tilted his head and stared at Mike through expressionless eyes; eventually he smiled slightly. "Like I said, it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without you."

They stared at each other silently. One of the guards approached the table; Dan looked up.

"I'm afraid your time is up," the guard said, sounding almost apologetic. "There's a lot of families still waiting, and they've been here for hours."

Mike looked up at the guard. "It's okay, Neal, we're done. Just give us a minute."

The guard nodded. "You got it, Mike." He moved away.

Mike's eyes shifted between the two young men opposite him, and he smiled regretfully. "I'm sorry you drove all this way for just… this…"

"It wasn't a problem, Mike," Dan assured hurriedly. "No problem at all."

Mike smiled, staring at Steve. "Did you bring the Porsche?"

Dan laughed and glanced at the man beside him. "Naw, too small. Drove my Jeep."

"Good for you." Mike began to stand, the others followed. He reached across the table and shook hands with Dan, "Thanks for coming, Daniel, I really appreciate it."

The younger man took Mike's hand in both of his. "You take good care of yourself in here, you understand?" His eyes grew bright and he nodded with a closed-mouth smile, taking a step back.

Steve moved silently to the end of the table. Mike met his eyes, and stepped towards him. "Take care of yourself, don't be a hero, okay?" Steve said quietly, opening his arms. Mike pulled him into a hug. With his mouth near the older man's ear, Steve whispered, "I found him… Gordon Mercer." He felt Mike stiffen; he stepped back, dropping his arms and staring at Mike's stunned face and unfocused eyes. He smiled. "We'll see you again soon," he smiled enigmatically as he turned towards the exit.

Dan looked from Steve to Mike and back again then, with an apologetic smile, followed Steve out of the room, glancing back from the exit to see Mike, his head down and shoulders sagging, trailing one of guards out the far door.

# # # # #

Mike sank down onto his bunk; he really didn't remember following the guard from the visiting room. His heart was pounding again and his mind reeling.

 _Gordon Mercer._

He closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation.

# # # # #

Dan glanced across the front seat; Steve was staring silently out the side window. They hadn't exchanged a word since they had left the prison and headed back out on the road over twenty minutes ago. The only sound was the constant slap of the windshield wipers trying to keep up with the driving rain.

"You told him, didn't you?" Dan asked finally.

It took several seconds for Steve to turn his head and look at him, frowning slightly.

"Gordon Mercer. You told him, didn't you?"

Steve's mouth tightened into a taut, mirthless smile and he nodded. "Yep."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to rattle him. I don't want him getting complacent in there, thinking he's won this little battle. I want him to know we're not going to give up trying to get him out of there, no matter what he wants us to do… or not do." He paused then took a deep breath. "I want to make sure that when we finally figure this thing out, he'll want to get his old life back. And that he knows we'll be with him when he does."


	28. Chapter 28

It should have been an easy, relaxing long weekend: good food, good friends, a chance to rest and recharge, to look back over the past year and look ahead to the one to come.

But for several people whose roots and hearts were in San Francisco that wasn't going to be.

Jeannie had chosen to stay in Seattle for Thanksgiving this year. After all, she always celebrated the holiday with her father so there was really no point in going home. Several of her fellow doctoral candidates were spending the weekend together and had gathered at one friend's apartment to cook a turkey, bake a pumpkin pie and consume large quantities of wine. She was hoping it would help her cope; it did.

Dan spent his Friday at the office, trying to piece together some more of the puzzle pieces, but with all federal and state government offices closed he got nowhere. He did as much work as he could on some of his current cases, but again was stymied. Frustrated, he went home with a take-out lentil-and-eggplant curry and tried to bury his head in a book on high mountain hiking. Saturday morning he tossed his sleeping bag and camping supplies into the back of his Jeep and headed for Yosemite.

After his return from Tehachapi, Steve spent the rest of the holiday weekend in his apartment in Berkeley, screening calls through the answering machine while he spent some time grading papers and working on updating his courses and lectures.

But mostly he sat and thought, about his years in Homicide, the bonds he had established, the lives that had become so intertwined with his own.

With a cold beer before him, he had sat on the couch, a long yellow pad in his lap, and made a list of everything about the Leonard Cord murder that was still an unanswered question. It was a long list by the time he had finished, and he was sure it wasn't complete. But he knew if they could find the answers to all these questions, they could go to Gerry O'Brien and present a case that would be impossible to disregard.

He looked at the pad, at the last question on the list. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the black ink pen and circled it, then circled it again and again until the ballpoint had torn through the paper. Frustrated, with an angry growl he threw the pen across the room and the pad onto the floor.

His rage subsiding, he let his head drop back onto the couch and he exhaled loudly through clenched teeth. He eventually straightened up and bent down to pick up the pad, chuckling softly and sheepishly at the uncharacteristic lack of control. He tried unsuccessfully to flatten the torn page, shaking his head in annoyance at himself.

He sat back again, the pad in his lap, and stared at the offending last question: _How DID Mike break his hand?_

# # # # #

Mike hadn't gotten much sleep Thursday night. He knew that Steve had dropped his little _Gordon Mercer_ bombshell with exacting precision. The noose was tightening, he realized, and with the fertile minds working on unraveling this little mystery, he knew it was only a matter of time until they got closer and closer to the truth.

He couldn't allow that to happen, but he was helpless to figure out how to stop it. He was definitely not in a position of power. But acceptance of the inevitable didn't make it any easier to stomach.

He had spent the day Friday stalking the aisles of the library, lethargically restocking the shelves and helping inmates find the books they were seeking. He barely remembered going to the mess hall for lunch, and questions and requests had to be repeated before they sunk into his pre-occupied brain. More than one person, including a few guards, asked if he was alright.

After a dinner of 'turkey' leftovers, he made his way to the commissary. There were a lot of inmates in the slow-moving line ahead of him. He didn't really care; he had nothing else to do.

Barney, an elderly trustee who helped man the tuck shop, smiled when Mike finally made it to the window. "Hey, how ya doing, Mike?"

The former detective nodded, smiling. "Doing okay, Barney. You?"

"Ah, ya know, same ol', same ol'. What can I get for ya tonight?" He flipped through the binder on the table beside him, looking for Mike's account.

"I, ah, I don't have much left, I don't think. I'll have to get my daughter to wire some money down, but if I have enough on account I'd like some –"

"What are ya talkin' about?" Barney interrupted him. "Your account's full." He pointed at the binder that Mike couldn't see.

Frowning in confusion, Mike inclined his head. "No, I'm sure I'm almost out of funds –"

"And I'm telling you your account is up to full. It was filled up yesterday. You're good," he laughed, shaking his head. "So, what d'ya want?"

"Uh, well, uh, I'll, ah, I'll take a couple of cans of Poppycock and a couple of packs of Dentyne… and, um, some toothpaste."

"You got it," Barney said as he stepped deeper into the small 'shop' to collect the requested products.

Mike waited, stupefied, while Barney placed his order on the counter, making a notation in the binder then handing the items over. Sliding the two packs of gum into his shirt pocket with his reading glasses and the toothpaste in his pants pocket, he picked up the two cans of caramel corn and started to turn away when Barney called him back.

"Here," he said, tossing a small white envelope onto the counter, "sorry, I almost missed this. One of the guards gave it to me to give to you."

Mike looked at the envelope, frowning, but made no move to pick it up.

"Take it," Barney insisted, chuckling, "it's been checked out."

Mike could see the red APPROVED stamp on the front of the envelope over the _Mike Stone_ written in black ink. He recognized the handwriting. Tucking the second can of Poppycock under his left arm, with a slightly trembling right hand he picked up the envelope. "Thanks," he said quietly as he stepped away from the window and started back down the corridor, past the line of prisoners waiting their turn.

He placed the envelope on the pillow when he got back to his bunk, then took his time opening his locker and putting the cans of caramel popcorn, toothpaste and the packs of gum away. He sat slowly, slipping on his reading glasses before he picked up the envelope.

He stared at his name on the front then lifted the unfastened flap. There was a small piece of folded white paper inside. He took a deep breath before sliding it out, taking the time to put the envelope on the bed before he opened the paper.

On it, in Steve's hand, was written _Whatever you think, you're not alone._

# # # # #

"So how's he doin', really?" Haseejian asked as he picked up his can of beer and took a sip.

Steve swallowed the mouthful of pizza he'd been chewing before he answered. "He seems to be doing pretty good. He looks fine," he answered, shooting a glance at Dan, "well, as good as anyone in prison _can_ look, I guess."

"I bet he was surprised to see you," Lessing chuckled as he came in from Dan's kitchen, a fresh slice of pizza on his plate.

Dan laughed. "You can say that again. It was Steve's idea, and I'm really glad we did it. I think he was grateful."

"Well, you guys missed a hell of a turkey dinner at the Healey's, let me tell you," Haseejian gushed, then stopped himself and looked at Dan, "well, maybe not you…"

They all laughed. Lessing glanced at his watch. "Jeez, I wonder when Bill and Dan are going to get here? There won't be any pizza left at this rate."

"There's another all-dressed in the oven," Dan assured him before taking a bite from his own vegetarian slice.

"Excellent," the black homicide detective chuckled, reaching for his beer on the end table after dropping onto one end of the couch.

The doorbell rang.

"Finally!" Haseejian laughed as Dan got to his feet, heading to the front door with his plate still in his hand.

The knob was barely turned when the door was almost pushed open and Bill Tanner charged into the room, Dan Healey hot on his heels. Dan Robbins had taken a rapid step backwards to get out of their way, frowning comically at the sudden burst of energy in the otherwise languid room.

Tanner had several sheets of paper in one hand, which he held up and waved. He was grinning. "We've got it!"

Everyone snapped to attention. "Got what?" Haseejian asked.

"Proof that Gordon Mercer was here on September 17th and that he went to see a doctor about his hand." Healey had stopped beside his colleague, sporting a matching grin.

"You're kidding…" Steve breathed, leaning forward and setting his plate on the coffee table.

Tanner shook his head and Healey laughed.

"What have you got?"

Tanner glanced at everyone and cocked his head. "St. Francis has an 'Allan Fitzgerald' arriving in their Emergency Room at 7:23 a.m. on Monday, September 17th with a cut and bruised right hand. According to their records and the forms he filled out, 'Allan Fitzgerald' was a tourist from Pennsylvania who had injured his hand changing a tire on his rental car."

He looked up at the others with raised eyebrows; they all glanced at each other, soft smiles emerging. "Sound familiar?" Dan Robbins said rhetorically with a shake of his head.

Healey took over. "It turns out that morning was very busy at St. Francis; there'd been a skirmish between a bunch of our _homeless citizens_ in the 'Loin overnight and a lot of them had been brought in with all kinds of injuries, so the ER was crowded and they were trying to keep some of the street folk in isolation… you know, lice and all that kinda stuff… and one of their x-ray machines wasn't working… In other words, a nightmare for the staff there that night." He smiled in sympathy.

"So the wait times were incredibly long," Tanner continued the narrative, "and from what this report says," he held up the sheets again, "there was over a three-hour wait just for the x-ray machine that was working and after the preliminary exam of his hand, Allan Fitzgerald just disappeared."

"We're thinking he just got too antsy and left. He probably dropped into one of the drug stores near the hospital and bought some ointment and gauze and stuff like that and just wrapped the hand himself before the flight home," Healey concluded with a shrug.

"So that's probably why his doctor back home said he came in to see him, mentioning something about the x-ray they had taken in Roanoke didn't catch the broken bones in his hand." Steve looked at the others with a furrowed brow. "That sounded fishy to me when the doctor told us but I didn't want to say anything and tip our hand, you know."

The others nodded. Steve's gaze had unfocused briefly, then his head came up suddenly and he stared at Haseejian. "Norm, I need you to do a follow up on that 'Allan Fitzgerald' plane reservation with, what was it, American Airlines?"

The Armenian sergeant nodded.

"I know you said 'Fitzgerald' flew from Washington out here and back, leaving the Friday and returning the Monday, right?"

All the others nodded.

"So…" Steve paused, holding up an index finger, thinking, "so how did he know he was going to be flying back home on the Monday? How did he know he was going to catch up with Cord on the Sunday night and… beat him to death… and then be able to catch the flight home on Monday? That doesn't make any sense, does it?"

Healey grimaced, "No, it sure as hell doesn't." The other nodded again, frowning.

"Open jaw," Lessing said quietly.

Everyone's head snapped in his direction. He sat back slightly and chuckled.

"An open jaw ticket," he said again. "It's when you make a reservation but leave the day and time 'open', so you can make last minute changes. It costs a little more and not all the airlines do it, but I'm pretty sure American does."

"So that means he could have left his return flight unbooked and then just called the airline to see when they had a seat available?"

Lessing nodded. "Yeah. That's probably why he didn't take the first flight out Monday morning but had to wait for the mid-afternoon one."

Nodding slowly, liking what he was hearing, Steve turned to Haseejian again. "Norm, can you check that out today… see if 'Allan Fitzgerald' had an open jaw ticket? If so, gentlemen, we just took one giant step along the road to Mike's freedom."

Beaming, Dan turned to the two latecomers. "Come on into the kitchen, fellas – there's hot pizza and cold beer waiting for you."


	29. Chapter 29

Things began to move a lot faster after the discovery of 'Allan Fitzgerald' and his travel history. Though they still couldn't prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that the name was the alias that Gordon Mercer used to travel back and forth, the 'coincidences' were beginning to pile up.

Unfortunately though, Steve had no choice but to spend more time at Berkeley; like Mike had said, he owed a responsibility to his students and the institution itself. But his focus was definitely divided.

The others were all involved with open cases and that had to remain their first priority. If the brass in any way thought their work was being compromised, they could be reprimanded, and they would definitely be prohibited from any further 'extracurricular' investigating, especially concerning a case that was, for all intents and purposes, considered closed. So during the day they trod lightly but, in the evenings and any spare time they had, they pursued every lead and every idea that crossed their minds.

And they were making progress. Real, solid progress.

The phone was ringing when Steve turned the key in the lock. Leaving the door open he sprinted across the living room and lifted the handset. "Hello?"

"Steve! Hey, how ya doing, son?" It was the booming voice of Stan Rogers.

"Great, great. How are you?" He dropped his briefcase on the couch and shrugged out of his topcoat, changing ears as he did so. "What's up?" He knew Rogers would only call if he had something.

"Well, you're never gonna guess what. It took a little digging out here, and a little greasing of a few palms, as they say – but we found your counterfeiter."

There was a brief silence across the long distance line.

"What?" Steve asked breathlessly, almost not believing what he was hearing.

The deep booming chuckle rumbled in his ear. "Yep, we found the guy. He's in D.C. It took some doing… Anyway, one of our CI's here in Philly knew this guy and gave us his address and we paid him a visit this morning. He denied everything at first, of course, but when we told him, vaguely, what was involved here and we showed him Mercer's picture and told him if he came clean with us, we'd tell the D.A. he was cooperating… well, he changed his tune pretty fast."

"Oh my god, that's, ah, that's amazing. What did he say?"

"Well, according to this guy, Mercer approached him almost a year ago –"

"A year ago?!"

Another deep-throated chuckle. "You heard me, a year ago. So obviously Mercer's been planning this for awhile."

"But how did he know Cord was gonna get out?" Steve mused aloud.

"Hey, I'm gonna leave that for you to figure out, but I have a feeling, from talking to our paperhanger here, that there was no rush on this 'order'. So I think it might probably just be something Mercer wanted to have already in his possession, just in case, you know? Anyway, that's how I'm reading it."

"Humh, sounds reasonable…" Steve's mind was racing. "So, ah, this guy, he's, ah, he's positive that it was Mercer."

"Beyond a doubt. Those nails you were talking about? I think we just pulled another one, what do you think?"

Steve exhaled loudly and chuckled. "I think I owe you a big one, Stan."

"Hey, you don't owe me nothing, kid. The only thing I want is to be with you when you guys come out here to finally put the cuffs on Gordon Mercer and then I want to hear you got your old partner out and back home, okay?"

Steve swallowed heavily, then tried to keep the emotion out of his voice. "You got it, on both counts."

"So listen, I'll send you all the info we got here, the transcripts, early copies of the fake I.D. that Mercer ordered – Oh, yeah," Rogers cut himself off, "this forger is a perfectionist; he keeps copies of everything he does in case the client comes back for duplicates or something. Can you believe that?"

"You've got to be kidding?"

"Not a bit. We actually have copies of the I.D.'s he made for Mercer. Now, unfortunately, none of his copies have photos on them – that's one of the things he does to 'protect' his clients, he doesn't keep pictures. But we do have the blanks with the name 'Allan Fitzgerald' on them, so that's somethin' anyway."

"Stan, you don't know how important that is for us. Wait till I tell you what we found here a couple of days ago…"

A half hour later, after telling Rogers about uncovering 'Allan Fitzgerald's' hospital visit and their inquiry in to American Airlines about a possible 'open jaw' ticket, Steve finally hung up and closed his front door. He was tired, but there was almost a bounce in his step as he put his coat away and transferred his briefcase to the study. Grabbing a cold beer from the fridge, he dropped onto the couch and started to call the others. It was over an hour later before he could even think about dinner.

# # # # # #

Just after noon the next day, Sergeant Norm Haseejian received a call from American Airlines. Within an hour, they all knew – a round-trip ticket in the name 'Allan Fitzgerald' was purchased at Washington's Dulles Airport on the morning of Friday, September 14th at 8:23 a.m., paid by a VISA credit card in the same name. It was an open-jaw ticket.

As thrilled as Steve was to get the news, he knew, as did the others, that although this was another question on the list answered, it was still just circumstantial. Even the Washington counterfeiter's sworn testimony was, without photographic proof, circumstantial. They needed something concrete and they needed it soon if they wanted to get Mike out by Christmas.

 _The wheels of justice turn slowly, but grind exceedingly fine._ He smiled grimly as he remembered the old axiom. As quickly as Mike had been incarcerated, it would take a lot longer to get him out. Christmas was beginning to look like a pipedream.

# # # # #

After the three rapid victories, things slowed down considerably. They were getting nowhere trying to discover who had tipped Mercer off to Cord's release, how Mercer and Cord had possibly ended up together at Pier 5 on the Sunday night, how Mike had tracked Cord to the pier, and how had Mike broken his hand if, indeed, he had not beaten Cord to death. If these questions weren't answered, any hope of getting their colleague out of prison before the end of his sentence would disappear.

Steve tried his best to concentrate on his lectures and courses, trying to give his students the attention they deserved, but it was getting harder and harder as the days dragged by. The five detectives were immersed in a number of cases requiring their full attention, which was proving more difficult by the hour.

As late November rolled into early December, the mood amongst the members of 'Mike's Team', as they had begun calling themselves, began to get as dark and gloomy as the grey clouds that hung over The City.

Jeannie continued to get calls twice a week from her father, on Tuesdays and Saturdays. He was enjoying his time in the library, he told her, and getting a lot of reading done. He said he was keeping to himself mostly and that was a good thing; the other inmates were leaving him alone.

He was still coaching basketball from the sidelines on Sundays. He was startled when she asked him why he wasn't playing, but covered quickly and smoothly by telling her that he was happy to do some coaching first and maybe participate later, when he felt he could keep up with the younger and stronger players.

Though she was still distraught at the turn of events, her worry for his safety was beginning to wane slightly. As difficult as the situation was, her resilient father seemed to be settling in and making the most of his situation. She would have expected nothing less; he always seemed to be able to put the best face on anything.

She continued to resist asking him if she could visit at Christmastime. She was worried that he would say 'No'; that his shame over what he was putting them both through would override his need to see his one and only child. And she couldn't do that to him, back him into a corner like that. So she didn't ask, and every time she hung up the phone her heart would break a little more.

She had no way of knowing that, after every call, her father would return to his bunk, lie down with his arm over his eyes, and cry.

# # # # #

Steve opened the door of his office, a student in tow. They were discussing an upcoming lecture topic the young woman was very excited about; her enthusiasm was infectious and he chuckled softly as she followed him into the room.

As he crossed around his desk, he noticed the small bright pink message slip. Even from a few feet away he could see URGENT printed in black Sharpie ink. The student was asking him a question, but he had zoned out for a few seconds.

"Um, I'm sorry, what?"

The young woman had followed his line of sight and read the URGENT notation upside down. She became even more flustered. "Oh, I'm sorry, Professor Keller, I really shouldn't be bothering you anymore. I just –"

"No, it's okay, Karen, really," he assured her quickly, but she could tell he was no longer focused on her and their topic of conversation.

"No, I really should be going, I have a lot of studying to do tonight if I'm going to be able to challenge you tomorrow," she laughed, pushing her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. She clutched the books in her arms tighter as she turned to go. "Have a good night, Professor!" she called brightly over her shoulder as she disappeared out the door.

He watched her go with an affectionate smile. He wondered if he was ever that enthusiastic; a part of him hoped so, the other part hoped not.

He turned his attention back to the message. The caller was listed as Sgt. Healey and the phone number was one he recognized instantly. He glanced at his watch; the call had been received over three hours before.

"Damn!" he cursed under his breath as he picked up the handset and dialed. The call was answered after one ring.

"Robbery, Healey," came the gruff reception.

"Dan, it's Steve. What's up?"

"Oh, great, good. Listen, can you get your ass over here asap?"

"Sure, what's going on?"

"I don't want to tell you over the phone, just get here. Come up to Robbery. I'll be waiting for you."

"Okay, I'll hit the road as soon as I can. Be there in about a half hour, traffic willing."

"Good. Hey, don't speed," Healey chuckled as he ended the call.

Smiling at the remark, Steve stared at the receiver in his hand for a couple of seconds before hanging up. He wondered what was so urgent that he needed to get into The City right away; he hoped it was something good for a change.

# # # # #

The building was bustling as the day shift officers were preparing to leave and the night shift coming aboard. Steve took the elevator up to the third floor and almost jogged to the Robbery office.

Healey was sitting behind his desk when he entered the cavernous room. There were several other officers present, some on phones; all of them looked his way and acknowledged him in one manner or the other. He greeted them back.

"What's up?" he said to Healey as he approached the desk.

The older man stood. "Come with me."

They left Robbery and started down the corridor in silence. Healey stopped at the office just before the bank of elevators and opened the glass-paneled door. The black letters on the door read _Captain Roy Devitt._

"Roy's not using it so he said we could," Healey explained cryptically as he led the way into the small office.

Norm Haseejian and Bill Tanner were already in the room, sitting in the two guests chairs. Behind the desk was a thin, disheveled and obviously frightened older white man of indeterminate age; he looked seventy but could have been forty.

Frowning, Steve looked from the derelict to Healey.

The Robbery sergeant smiled. "Steve, I want you to meet Charles Randolph Albertson. Everybody calls him Charlie, he tells us."

Steve looked at the old rummy, trying to figure out where Healey was headed.

Haseejian looked up and grinned. "Ol' Charlie here, he has a special friend. Don't ya, Charlie?" he nodded across the desk, and the old man grinned and nodded. He was missing several teeth.

Albertson reached into the pocket of his filthy black suitcoat and took out a dirty piece of paper. Trying to flatten it out, he put it on the desk. Haseejian reached for it, snagging it with two fingers like it was covered with something he didn't want to touch, and held it up for Steve to take.

Glancing curiously at Haseejian then Albertson, Steve took the paper. Under the grime, but still legible, was written in block letters ' _Allan Fitzgerald'_ and a local phone number.

"Steve," Healey said with quiet authority, "meet Gordon Mercer's eyes and ears in San Francisco."


	30. Chapter 30

With a curious half-smile, Steve looked at the disheveled old man sitting contentedly behind the desk. "How ya doin', Charlie?" he asked genially.

Albertson grinned. "I'm doin' just fine, son, just fine."

His voice was strong and steady, and Steve shot a bewildered look at Healey who grinned and nodded. "Remember what your grandmother used to tell you – 'Never judge a book by its cover'?"

"Yeah, I remember," Steve chuckled, "but it wasn't my grandmother, it was my dad."

Healey nodded at Haseejian and Tanner and they both stood, Tanner crossing around to the other side of the desk and taking the old man's arm.

"Come on, Mr. Albertson," Haseejian said, opening the door, "Bill and I are going to take you out for dinner."

Albertson's eyes widened and he grinned. "Well, I won't say no to that, son, no sirree," he laughed as Tanner helped him to his feet and escorted him towards the door.

Haseejian glanced back at Steve and Healey as he closed the door, smiling and winking. "See ya later."

When the door shut, Steve turned to Healey. "What the hell is going on?"

Grinning, Healey gestured to the desk. "Take a seat and I'll tell ya. You're gonna love this."

Steve sat on the edge of the desk; Healey remained standing. "I've got so much to tell you I don't even know where to start." He sounded almost giddy.

"Okay, so, how about with – how did you find him?"

"Ah, good place," Healey agreed with a chuckle. "Well, you know we've been telling our snitches and CI's to keep an eye out for anything that they think might be related to our little… problem, and a lot of the guys out there know Mike and they actually like and respect him and they wanna help.

"Well, one of Tanner's snitches comes to him yesterday and tells him about this guy that they all know," he nodded over his shoulder towards the now closed door, " our new friend Charlie, who's known to do odd jobs for people to keep himself… independent, let's put it that way."

Steve nodded. "Sure."

"Charlie's well known to the street crowd, but he's stayed away from cops; he's never been a snitch and he's never volunteered information on illegal activity. He's kept to himself, but he's also kept out of trouble."

Healey plopped himself down onto one of the guest chairs. "He's a drinker, but he's not a drunk. He just likes to live on the streets and he's been there for years. Gets along with everyone."

"How old do you think he is?" Steve asked.

Healey shook his head. "We're still trying to find that out. I'd peg him anywhere from forty to seventy." He chuckled.

"Yeah, me too."

"Anyway, Bill's snitch tells him that this Charlie guy disappeared about two months or so ago, just… gone, vanished. Now he thought this was weird as Charlie never talked about leaving town. And there were no reports of an unidentified body found anywhere, so they just assumed he left. But he's a local, never been anywhere else, so why would he just pick and leave, right?"

Frowning, Steve nodded.

"So anyway, the snitch approaches Bill a couple of days ago and tells him he's seen Charlie back in town. Says he asked him where he was and ol' Charlie just says, 'I been on vacation.' Yeah, right," Healey laughed.

"Well, Bill thought the timing was a little suspicious, so he had patrol look for Charlie and they found him with no problem, down on Howard. He was buying some booze for some friends but he wasn't drinking himself, curiously enough. Anyway, they bring him in and Bill talks to him, and they're going through his pockets when they found that." He pointed to the note Steve was holding.

Suddenly realizing it was still in his hand, Steve dropped the small piece of paper onto the desk like it was on fire. He looked back at Healey, his brow furrowing even deeper.

"Are you ready for this? Charlie had no problem opening up… seems that loyalty and discretion are not part of his vocabulary, at least not at the moment, thank god. The story goes that about oh, six, seven months ago, Charlie was approached by a man on the street who took him to a restaurant for a good meal. All the guy wanted to do was talk, he said. And, not one to turn down a free meal, he went along.

"So, after they're finished this big lunch, this guy says he's gonna offer to pay Charlie $100 a month and give him a place to stay, 'on account'. Charlie asks, 'On account of what?' obviously, and the guy says, 'Someday I might need your services to help me track a man down, and I need you to be there for me.'"

Healey paused for a moment to let this sink in. He crossed his legs. "The guy tells Charlie about this man up in Quentin who murdered his daughter years ago. And how he's afraid this guy is going to get out of prison and will kill again. And he wants to make sure this doesn't happen.

"Now Charlie's all sympathetic, and the stranger says, 'I make a good living, I can afford this so I don't want you to worry.' Charlie says he'll think about it, so the guy suggests they get together the next day and he'll show Charlie what he's talking about.

"They do meet up the next day and the stranger takes him to this small one-room rental over on Treat and says Charlie can stay there and he'll send him $100 a month for 'expenses', and all Charlie has to do is live there and be prepared to do whatever this guy says should the need ever arise."

Steve shook his head in bewilderment.

"So," Healey continued, "Charlie's no fool and he agrees. So they have this arrangement – the stranger will send him the money, and Charlie is allowed to live the life he always does, but he has to stay sober and he can't give the apartment telephone number to anyone. And if and when the stranger calls, he has to do exactly what he is told."

Healey cleared his throat. "Well, about two and a half months ago, Charlie doesn't remember the exact date, he got the call. He was to go to a place near the Palace at 11 in the morning on a Friday, and keep an eye out for a non-descript blue bus that was going to be dropping some men off. He had a photo of the man he was to look for and when he spotted that man he was to follow him, discreetly of course, the rest of the day and then 'make a report', so to speak. Call him back.

"Turned out to be good at his job; he followed his intended target and when the mark settled in for the night in a flophouse off Market, Charlie went home and left a note, telling his benefactor where he could be found, then went back and settled in for the night across the street from the flophouse. When the mark headed out the next day, Charlie was with him, all day. When the mark settled back into the flophouse for the night, Charlie went home again – his 'boss' was there by then.

"So, the boss gives Charlie a big envelope; it had $10,000 in it, in small used bills. He tells Charlie to get outa town, permanently. Charlie doesn't want to; after all, he's a native. He doesn't want to leave his hometown. But the ten grand is more money than he's seen in his life, so he does. He hops on a bus and heads for L.A, just like that."

Frowning, Steve glanced at the note on the desk, knowing the story wasn't over. "What's he doing back?"

Healey grinned. "Can you believe he got homesick? He said he got fed up with all the sunshine and the heat in L.A., missed the fog and the rain and the hills… and he came home. And that's when Bill's snitch spotted him."

"And he just came out and told you all this?" Steve sounded skeptical and incredulous at the same time.

"Well," Healey began with a slight chuckle, "turns out Charlie knows Mike, knows him pretty good, it seems. Years ago Charlie was in a tough situation, he was accused of a liquor store robbery he didn't do – this was when Mike was in Robbery before he made the transfer to Homicide. Everyone was pinning it on him except Mike, and it turned out he didn't do it, Mike was right. Charlie never forgot that.

"When we explained to him what this was all about, that the guy he was following had been beaten to death and Mike had willingly taken the rap, he opened up like a tap." He pointed at the note on the desk. "That's Gordon Mercer's handwriting but we won't get a match 'cause he printed it, and we won't get a fingerprint off it either. As for the phone number, it's been disconnected, but we're having the phone company check who paid for it while it was active – we haven't heard back from them yet and probably won't till tomorrow.

"We did find out the apartment is now occupied by someone else, but we were thinking, how often do you think those… places get a good thorough cleaning?"

"Probably not as often as one would hope, I'm guessing," Steve said with a shudder.

"Well, that's what we're counting on. We're hoping that there's a fingerprint or two of Gordon Mercer's that hasn't been corrupted in some way. Then that would definitely tie him to Charlie and, tangentially, Cord. Unfortunately, we don't have Mercer's prints on file, as far as I know. We're going to have to get them somehow."

"I can call Stan Rogers back in Philly." Steve's gaze unfocussed and he stared into space, a slight smile playing over his lips. "Tangentially? What, you swallow a dictionary?"

"I'm trying to improve my vocabulary," the Robbery detective retorted smugly. "It's working…"

"Yeah, right… So, ah, when are you going to the apartment?"

"We're just waiting on the warrant. That's where Dan and Lee are right now, talking Gerry O'Brien into issuing a warrant for a search of the apartment, based on what Charlie told us. We'll just have to find a judge to sign off on it tonight, but that shouldn't be a problem, then we'll head over there." He paused and stared at the younger man. "So, what do you think?"

Steve exhaled loudly. "I think I have to give Stan Rogers a call. I want to know where Gordon Mercer is getting the money for all this. I'm pretty sure he's not making so much that he can afford that house in Hagerstown and an apartment here, I don't care how cheap it is. I also want him to see if he can get ahold of Mercer's fingerprints; I somehow doubt they're on file anywhere. The guy's been a Boy Scout before all this from what I know so far.

"And we're gonna need to find out when he first rented the apartment and what name is on the lease and the credit card… and I want to find out if his ex-wife knew what he was doing." He stared at Healey and grinned. "You guys are the best, you know that. Maybe we _will_ get him home for Christmas."

# # # # #

Rogers was impressed with the progress that they had made in San Francisco and he promised to look into Gordon Mercer's finances. He was also going to check to see how many credit cards had been taken out in his name or the name of 'Allan Fitzgerald', or the ex-wife.

Haseejian and Tanner also got back in touch with the airlines again, asking them to go back a further two years to see if Mercer or 'Fitzgerald' had made previous trips to The City, especially around the time that Albertson said he was first approached. This time, with the names already known, the search wouldn't take as long.

The more checks they could put beside the unanswered questions the better.

It turned out it wasn't going to be until early the next morning before they could get a judge to sign the warrant for the Treat Street apartment. Healey was the only one of the five detectives who would be free to check it out; he arranged to have a lab tech meet him there.

But for the first time in a long time, all five detectives and the criminology professor got a good night's sleep.


	31. Chapter 31

The Treat Street apartment didn't yield anything substantial, but Healey made the crime scene analyst dust every surface that could conceivably retain even a partial fingerprint from almost three months ago. Ignoring the irritated glare from the frustrated lab tech, he made a quick search of the one room dwelling then spent the rest of his time canvassing the bars, restaurants and bodegas nearby, flashing Mercer's more recent Maryland DMV photo in case anyone recognized him.

He had no luck.

# # # # #

But, on a more positive note, Tanner managed to track down the owner of the Treat Street building, who confirmed that, indeed, 'Allan Fitzgerald' had rented the one-room apartment, for $150 a month, cash, starting the 1st of March. He paid three months in advance then, at the beginning the subsequent months, an envelope with the same amount would arrive in the mail.

The landlord confirmed that 'Allan Fitzgerald' was the same man in the Maryland DMV photo.

# # # # #

Two days later, a representative from American Airlines got in touch with Haseejian. 'Allan Fitzgerald' had made one earlier round-trip from Washington's Dulles Airport to San Francisco, from Monday, February 20th to Sunday, March 5th.

But, far more interesting, was the revelation that a Gordon Allan Mercer, from Hagerstown, Maryland, had flown three round-trips from Washington to San Francisco, once a year, in 1975, '76 and '77. Each time he stayed for ten days.

# # # # #

VISA took only one day to answer Inspector Lee Lessing's inquiry regarding 'Allan Fitzgerald's' credit card. One card had been issued eleven months earlier; the balance had continued to rise over every pay period, but the minimum was being paid on time every month. No flags were attached to either the name or the card and as far as the parent company, Bank of America, was concerned, 'Allan Fitzgerald' was a valued customer.

There was also on record one VISA card in the name of Eleanor Mercer of Philadelphia, but the balance was low and was paid off regularly, in full, every month.

# # # # #

Steve was waiting to hear from Stan Rogers. The Philadelphia detective was thrilled to have been given another assignment from 'out west' and promised to get back in touch as soon as he had anything to report.

He was checking out the finances of both Gordon Mercer and his ex, and he and his partner were figuring out a way to get Mercer's fingerprints. Having a clean record, there were no prints in any system, so they were going to have to do it the old-fashioned way – clandestinely.

He promised to give Steve a call when they were successful.

# # # # #

He held the hard leather ball lightly in both hands, his fingertips on the ribs. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he broke into a light jog then quickly picked up speed, sprinting down the court. A few feet from the basket he leapt into the air, transferring the ball to his right hand and gracefully dropping it through the red metal hoop.

He landed lightly, but the impact of reconnecting with the floor sent a shaft of pain knifing through the left side of his chest. He gasped, gritting his teeth, grabbing his ribs with his right hand. With an apologetic smile, Mike looked at Ben Driscoll, who was watching him from the edge of the court a few feet away, and shook his head. "Sorry, Ben, I'm just not ready yet. Another week or so, I would guess."

Shaking his head in sympathetic disappointment, Driscoll approached the older man and slapped him gently on the back. "Well, it was worth a shot, wasn't it?" he laughed. "Pun intended."

Mike shook his head and chuckled, nodding. "I'm still good to coach. You're not getting rid of me that easily." Still holding his chest, he put his left arm around Driscoll's shoulders and they walked off the court.

# # # # #

The Homicide inspector was standing on the leeward side of the small fishing shack on the end of the pier. The biting cold wind was blowing in off the Bay and no matter how tight he pulled his down jacket or how high he turned up the collar, it seemed to seep in through the fabric. He almost wished he was wearing the unflattering stocking cap that he kept in the Jeep. Unfortunately, the Jeep was parked at Bryant Street.

He was waiting for the diving recovery crew to surface with the body that had been spotted drifting in the frigid choppy waters off the Hyde Street Pier. It seemed to be taking forever, but then again, it was well past sunset and the water was murky here at the best of times.

Stamping his feet again in an effort to keep warm, he didn't notice the dark bundle of clothes that sidled up to him.

"You're Mike Stone's partner, ain'tcha?" came the gravelly androgynous voice out of nowhere and Dan Robbins jumped in surprise, his head snapping in that direction.

"Jeez!" escaped his mouth, his heart pounding as he stared wide-eyed at the apparition suddenly before him. All he could see was a pair of watery grey eyes peering at him overtop of a black scarf wrapped around a black hood, the thickset body encased in the rest of the black winter coat.

"Did ya hear me? I axed if you were Mike Stone's partner. Are ya deef?"

With a peeved scowl, Dan found his voice. "Yes, I heard you and yes, I am Mike Stone's partner. Why?"

The grey eyes blinked at him. "What's yer name?"

Inclining his head slightly, not sure if he wanted to divulge that little tidbit of information, he waited a beat or two before answering, "Dan. Inspector Dan Robbins."

"Well, Inspector Dan Robbins, I'm Zelda." There was movement and suddenly a pale, heavily veined and dirty but very feminine-looking hand emerged from somewhere and was thrust towards him. "Pleased t' meet ya."

Hesitantly, Dan took his own right hand out of his pocket and shook hers. "And I'm pleased to meet you," he offered almost tentatively, still trying to figure out what this was going to be about.

"I, ah, I hear the Lieutenant's in some trouble… s'that right?"

Dan nodded, frowning. "Yeah… yes, he is. He pleaded guilty to beating a man to death, a man who killed a young woman and who threatened his daughter. He's, ah, he's been sent to prison." It wasn't a secret, and he couldn't think of a valid reason not to tell her.

Zelda dropped her head and stared at the ground. She seemed genuinely upset and he waited while she dealt with the news. "Ah, listen, sonny, I, uh…. well, I may know somethin' 'bout that. Is, ah, is there somewheres you an' I can go an' have a little talk, maybe you could buy me a cuppa coffee…?" She was staring into his eyes and there was something in the look that told him she was serious.

He glanced around, then called out to the patrolman a few feet away bouncing up and down trying to stay warm. "Keith! Zelda here and I are going for a cup of coffee up on Jefferson, you know that little –?"

"Place on the corner of Leavenworth? Yeah, I know it."

Dan nodded. "Can you come and get me when they…?" He gestured vaguely towards the activity going on in the water.

"You got it!" the patrolman nodded, continuing to bounce.

"Thanks. If I finish before they do, I'll bring you back a coffee," Dan chuckled as he turned away from the pier, motioning for Zelda to precede him along the wooden walkway towards the street.

# # # # #

In downtown Hagerstown, Gordon Mercer was sitting alone in a booth in the small, bustling Italian café. He had just finished a hearty meal of fettuccine carbonara with an antipasto salad, and a half carafe of a robust Valpolicella.

He opened the bill holder, checked the amount, then reached into his pocket for his wallet. Taking out the requisite number of bills, he laid them on top of the check in the holder and closed it. He got up, took his hat and coat off the hook behind the booth and headed towards the door.

The busboy crossed to the table with a plastic tub. He had just set it down when a tall, dark-haired man in a black suit approached and put a hand on his arm. The busboy frowned at the intrusion, then noticed the badge in the older man's hand.

Smiling, the stranger in the black suit took two large plastic bags out of his jacket pocket, dropped one onto the table and shook the other one open. Then, his hand covered with a crisp white handkerchief, he picked up the wineglass and placed it carefully in the plastic bag. He did the same with the water glass.

With a smile and a nod, and the plastic bags in his hands, the detective turned away and crossed the busy restaurant, exiting into the cold night air.

# # # # #

"Thank you," Zelda said politely as the young woman in the white apron placed the steaming cup of coffee in front of her. She looked across the table at Dan. "You sure you don't want a cup, too?"

He smiled. "No, thanks, ma'am. I don't drink coffee. Are you sure you don't want something to eat?"

Both hands wrapped around the warm cup, Zelda shook her head. "No, this'll be jus' fine." She took a small sip. "Whoo, that's hot," she chuckled slightly, putting the cup down but keeping her hands around it.

Dan leaned forward, his forearms against the edge of the table. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Zelda?"

She had removed the scarf from around her face; like most of the street people, it was hard to guess her age but he suspected she'd seen fifty in the rearview mirror many years ago. But she also looked tough and indestructible, the kind of indigenous homeless that could survive just about anything on the streets.

"I'd heard that the Lieutenant was in trouble, bad trouble, but I hadn't heard why. Heard rumors of course, but ya can't believe everythin' ya hear out there… you know that. But the other day, I overheard someone, a cop over on the Embarcadero near the Ferry Building, well, he was talkin' to another cop… officer," she glanced up at him with an almost apologetic smile, "I was huntin' in a garbage bin for cans, you know… anyway, one of 'em says somethin' 'bout the Lieutenant in some prison or somethin'…"

She picked up the cup and took a sip. Dan nodded, "That's right. He's in a medium security prison down near L.A."

She looked away, suddenly unable to meet his stare. And she seemed nervous. He cocked his head and smiled warmly. "Do you know something about what happened, Zelda? Do you know something about the night Mike beat that convict to death?" His heart was pounding.

She swallowed uneasily and bit her lower lip, then she nodded slightly and looked into his eyes. "The Lieutenant, he paid me to do a job for him."


	32. Chapter 32

"Mike paid you? To do what kind of a job?"

"I been on these streets for years, ya know…. I knows everybody… I knows where people can go t' disappear, ya know…" Zelda paused, glancing at him briefly. "I've known the Lieutenant for years too, ever since he was beat cop walkin' the 'Loin. He's one of the good guys, ya know…"

Dan smiled warmly, nodded. "Yes, he is…" When she didn't continue, he prompted, "What did he ask you to do, Zelda?"

She swallowed again. "He want'd me to be his eyes 'n' ears, he said. He, ah, he axed me to go to the Palace one morning an' follow this guy that was getting' offa a bus, one a them shuttle buses from Q? Gave me a picture of this guy that was getting' offa the bus an' I should follow him an' then to call the Lieutenant an' let him know where the guy went."

Dan held his breath.

"But when I got there, Charlie was already there waitin'." Her eyes met his and she frowned. "Charlie Albertson… you know him? He lives on the street too."

Dan smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I know Charlie. You said he was already there…?"

Zelda's greasy grey wavy hair bobbed up and down. "Waitin' in the shadows, jus' like me. I didn't think Mike want'd me to be seen, ya see, so's I stayed way back, but I saw that guy Mike was interested in getting' offa the bus an', lo and behold, Charlie's following him too!" She shook her head in amazement, like she was living the moment over again.

"What did you do?"

She smiled almost proudly. "I didn't wan' to let the Lieutenant down, ya know, so's I followed Charlie. He never knew I was behind him, ya know. I been on the streets long enough that no one sees me anymore…" There was a sudden sadness in her tone that tore into his heart.

"So then what did you do?" he prompted gently.

"Well, finally the guy from the bus checked into some flop on Turk near Market, an' Charlie took off. He came back a coupla hours later but by then I was settled in in an alley down the block. I figured the Quentin guy wasn't goin' anywheres that night, an' I was right." She took another sip of coffee. "I found a phone booth in the mornin' an' called the Lieutenant at the Hall an' he asked me to keep an eye on the bus guy that day too…" She shrugged and laughed dryly. "I had nothin' better to do so I said sure. Charlie was followin' him too, which I thought was strange, but neither of 'em ever saw me, I know that." She smiled proudly.

"Did you tell Mike about Charlie?"

She nodded. "He sorta sounded surprised, I guess. So anyways I followed 'em both around all the next day but nothin' happened. The bus guy was just checkin' out some old stomping grounds, I guess, in the Haight an' on Potrero, then went back to the flop agin for the night. Next mornin', no Charlie, but there _was_ this other guy followin' the bus guy instead. Now I thought that was kinda weird."

"What did this new guy look like?"

She shrugged. "Kinda normal, ya know, like someone who works in a office, ya know what I mean? Kinda, I dunno, about fifty maybe, light brown hair cut short, average… everythin'…"

Dan cursed himself silently for not carrying a picture of Gordon Mercer with him. That would have to wait for later. For now he just nodded. "So what happened then?"

"Well, I followed 'em both all day, the new guy was doin' jus' like Charlie did, jus' followin'. We all ended up at the flop agin but the new guy went in after the bus guy did. So's I waited, an' about ten minutes later, they both come out an' get into this car that was parked at the curb. I guess it was the new guy's car."

"Did the guy from the bus look like he was going willingly?"

Zelda shook her head. "I dunno. I was too far away an' it was dark out. I couldn't see his hands, they coulda been tied," she shrugged.

"What did the car look like?"

She tilted her head sharply and glared at him. "I weren't payin' attention to no car, the Lieutenant didn't ask me that. It was a car… a dark color… black? I dunno…"

"It's okay, it's okay," he said soothingly, quickly trying to smooth the ruffled feathers, "it doesn't matter."

"If it doesn't matter, why did ya ask?" she snapped, and he swallowed heavily, hoping he hadn't blown it. Taking a page from Mike's book, he smiled broadly and leaned forward a little more. "So what happened when they got into the car, Zelda? What did they do?"

She glared at him, her eyes narrow and furious, but slowly he saw the rage evaporate and she began to smile. She took another sip of the rapidly cooling coffee but she didn't seem to notice. Wiping her lips with the back of her right hand, she leaned towards him slightly. "Well, they sat in the car for a little bit an' then it started up an' they drove away… onta Market."

"What did you do?" Dan's heart was in his mouth; he was struggling not to appear too enthusiastic.

She grinned suddenly, revealing several perfectly normal teeth interspaced with large black gaps. But it was full of joy and life. "I got lucky, sonny, it was rush hour," she said with a cackle. "They weren't goin' nowhere fast. I still had some a the money the Lieutenant gave me for… _expenses_ , he told me…" she chuckled, then squirmed in the seat, almost proudly preening, "so I gets into this Yellow cab… he weren't too happy, the driver but to hell wit' him, eh?" The chuckle turned into a full-throated laugh; everyone in the coffee shop turned to look at their table.

Dan chuckled along with her, hoping it would encourage her. He needn't have worried.

Still laughing, she continued, "I tol' that cabbie to _'Follow that car!'_ Seen that in the movies once an' always wanted ta do it… an' I did!"

Still grinning, Dan nodded vigorously, "And where did you all end up?"

"Well, we didn't go too far," she told him, the chuckles starting to die. "Just went up Market towards the Embarcadero, then they turned off an' went behind one a the piers near the Ferry Buildin'."

"Did you follow them?"

Zelda shook her head vigorously. "No, sir, not in a cab! They woulda seen me." She looked at him like he was clueless and he swallowed a smile. "The Lieutenant tol' me to stay invisible…"

"So what did you do?"

She smiled proudly again. "I got outa the cab an' found a phone booth an' called the numbers the Lieutenant gave me until I found him."

"Found him? What do you mean?"

"Well, I first called the Hall but he weren't there so I called the other number."

Dan frowned. "Do you remember what that number was?"

"Nope," she shook her head, "but I know it weren't his office. I think it was his home."

"Okay… then what happened?"

She brightened. "He answered the phone an' I tol' him where I was an' where they was an' he said to stay where I was an' keep an eye on the buildin' they drove behind an' he'd come down there. An' I did an' he did."

"He came down to Pier 5?"

She frowned, "Well, I don't know if it were Pier 5 but he came down there. He gave me a twenty – an' this was on top a what he already give me – an' he tol' me I could go."

It was Dan's turn to frown. "He told you to leave?" She nodded. "And did you?"

Her nodding became more animated. "Well, hell, a course I did! I just walked back up Market an' found myself a nice place to have a good dinner. An' I did!"

"And you don't know what happened after that? You didn't see Mike again?"

She shook her head with a facial shrug. "Nope. That was it…. well, till I heard them officers talkin' on the Embarcadero about wha' happened to the Lieutenant. That's when I thought I should talk to someone about wha' happened. An' I knew the Lieutenant weren't with that good-looking Keller fella anymore after he got shot – I know 'bout that 'cause that was in the papers…"

"But you tracked me down…" Dan smiled.

"I asked around," she said enigmatically, staring at him through narrowed eyes. "I hear you been with him three years now, so you gotta be good or he wouldn'ta kept ya." She smiled at him.

"I will take that as a compliment," he said warmly, reaching across the table to lay a gentle hand on her forearm. "Zelda, I think you've helped a lot. A bunch of us, including Mike's old partner Steve… well, we don't think Mike _did_ beat that convict to death."

She stared at him, trying to interpret what he was saying. "So, you think that maybe that guy I saw puttin' the bus guy in the car…. he was the one that killed him?" she postulated slowly.

Dan nodded with a steely-eyed deliberateness and she sat back slightly.

"An', ah, an' what I just tol' ya, that might prove that the Lieutenant didn't do it?"

"It might," he said encouragingly.

He face contorted into a wide, happy smile. "Then Inspector Dan Robbins, I'm glad I tracked ya down."

# # # # #

After ensuring that he knew where to find Zelda when he needed her again and buying a large coffee for the patrolman, Dan sprinted back to the pier in time to see the dive recovery team winch the basket with the floater onto the dock. With Landry, his partner on this case, he started to work, accompanying the corpse to the morgue and beginning the long process of trying to identify the deceased, notify the next of kin and determine, with the coroner's help of course, if the death was accidental or not.

It was going to be a long night, and he had no idea when he would get the chance to call at least one of the others and tell them about the breakthrough with Zelda.

A little after five in the morning, a fairly decent time he thought, he finally managed to get to a phone. He called Steve. After enduring the initial grumbling about being awoken at such an ungodly hour, and despite his deepening exhaustion, he managed to string together enough coherent sentences for Steve to figure out that another break in their case had been uncovered the night before.

Now fully awake, a re-energized Steve promised to get in touch with the other members of the team and hopefully convene a meeting that evening. By the time they both hung up, Dan was almost asleep on his feet and Steve was fairly elevating above his bed.

# # # # #

"Dan'll have all the details when he gets here. He went home for a couple hours sleep," Steve said as he closed the menu and glanced towards the bar, looking for a waitress. He'd been the latest to arrive at the restaurant; Dan and Haseejian were still to come. They had decided to spare Dan the hosting chores because of his schedule.

"You said something about a homeless woman he talked to last night?" Lessing asked before taking a sip of his beer.

"Yeah, some woman named Zelda -"

"Hey, I know Zelda," Healey chirped up from across the table, "I've used her, ah… services a couple a times over the years. She's reliable, Steve. I've never had a problem with her."

"You never ran across her when you were with Mike?" Tanner asked.

Steve shook his head. "Mike shared a number of his snitches with me but there were a few he kept to himself, just like I had some I kept from him. We all do, right?"

The others nodded.

A commotion near the front door caught their attention and everyone looked over to see Haseejian almost jogging towards their table. It was such an unusual sight that Lessing and Healey actually started to laugh, only to stop abruptly when they spotted the look on the Armenian sergeant's florid face.

"Norm, what the hell -?" Healey began as the paunchy detective almost slid to a stop at their table.

"I've got it!" Haseejian managed to get out between gasps. "I've finally got it!"

"Finally got what?" Lessing asked, glancing nervously at the others.

Haseejian's flushed face split into a broad grin. "I know who Mercer's contact in Q was."


	33. Chapter 33

Eventually seated and his beer ordered, Haseejian looked around the table with a Cheshire cat grin. "All that checking and cross-checking finally paid off," he crowed in his gravelly voice as he took a folded sheet of white paper out of his inside jacket pocket. He unfolded it and put it down on the table, running his thumb along the creases to flatten it out then turned it so the others could read.

On it, in Times New Roman type, was one name: Dorothy Ellen Miller.

They all stared at it, frowned, looked at each other and then back at Haseejian. It obviously rang no bells with any of them.

It was Lee Lessing who said skeptically, "A woman?"

Haseejian looked at him with his hound dog eyes and nodded slowly. "Yes, a woman. A woman can be just as merciless and self-serving as any man; you should know that by now, being a cop and all that." Then his tone softened somewhat. "Anyway, this one isn't merciless or self-serving; she actually thought she was doing someone a good deed."

"Gordon Mercer?" Healey offered and Haseejian nodded.

"A woman…" Steve began slowly, "would mean that she was working in the offices, right?"

The Armenian sergeant nodded again.

Steve cocked his head and stared at him through narrowed eyes. "How high up?"

Haseejian smiled wistfully. "It doesn't get any higher… the warden's secretary."

"Holy hell," Lessing whispered, falling back in his chair. Healey caught his breath and Tanner's eyes widened. "Shit," the black Homicide inspector whispered. Steve continued to stare at Haseejian expressionlessly.

"How did their paths even cross?" the ex-detective asked eventually.

The waitress returned to the table with Haseejian's beer and seconds for Healey and Lessing. Tanner and Steve were still working on their firsts. When she left, Haseejian picked up his glass and took a sip, then set it down deliberately. "Well, it took awhile, but having a phone number from Maryland on that list really helped narrow things down, although that number led nowhere. But it got me thinking, and it took a lot of digging but… wait for it," he said with a small grin, pointing at the paper on the table, "Dorothy Ellen Miller is the wife of the brother of a man who works in the same company as Gordon Mercer does in Hagerstown, Maryland. And she just happens to be the warden's secretary and has been for over twenty years."

"You gotta be joking…" Healey whispered in awe.

Haseejian shook his head. "I have no idea how they connected; I guess we're gonna have to talk to her about that because somehow I think, even after we put the cuffs on this Mercer bastard, we're not gonna get anything out of him. But then, that's just the cop in me talking."

"No, I have a feeling you're gonna be right about that. If he did kill Cord, and let Mike take the blame for it, then I have a feeling he's gonna be a pretty tough nut to crack," Tanner added.

"I think you're right about that too," Healey agreed, "but I would love to have a chance at him –"

"What did I miss?" Dan Robbins voice reached them from several feet away. They all looked up to see him gesture to the waitress for a beer before he pulled out the last remaining chair and sat. He'd noticed the piece of paper on the table and spun it around so he could read it. "Who's Dorothy Ellen Miller?" He shrugged off his coat and left it on the chair behind him, then rubbed his cold hands together.

The rest of them, who had been staring vacantly at him, turned to Haseejian, who leaned back slightly and smiled theatrically. "Oh, nothing much, just the woman who works in Q and let Mercer know when Cord was getting out."

Dan froze slightly then his eyes travelled quickly to the others and back again. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack."

Dan's jaw dropped open slightly. "Way to go, Norm! How the hell did you figure that out?"

Haseejian waved a hand dismissively. "I've already told these guys, I'll fill you in later. _We,_ " he emphasized, gesturing around the table, "want to hear all about Zelda. What did she say?"

Over the course of their dinner, Dan filled them in on everything Zelda had told him, filling in a lot of the blanks in their timeline. By the time he had finished, the others were sitting back over cups of coffee, digesting both their meals and this new and critically important information.

Dan Healey was reflexively chewing on a toothpick. "Now I may be wrong about this, and I haven't seen the man in person, but Gordon Mercer doesn't look like a guy who could handle himself against somebody as big and powerful as Cord. Does anybody think that Mercer could take him in a fight?"

"Nope," Tanner agreed and everyone else shook their heads.

"So, what, he got the drop on him…?" He looked at Dan. "You said Zelda told you they just exited the flop and got into Mercer's car."

" _Possibly_ Mercer's car," Dan specified.

"Yeah, and that's something else we gotta check into – car rentals." Everyone nodded again. "No, I meant," Healey continued, "why would Cord just walk out with Mercer? I mean, Cord might not remember Mercer from the trial - Wait," He interrupted himself, turning to Steve. "Was Mercer at the trial? I know the mother wasn't, his wife…"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, he was, she wasn't. She'd already moved back east with the younger daughter. They were divorced by then, of course, but he was here for the trial, I remember seeing him, and Jeannie pointing him out to me and Mike." Steve stopped talking and froze for a split second. "Oh my god, now I remember… When the jury was out - like for, you know, the twenty minutes or so it took them to find him guilty - Mike went over to talk to Mercer. God, I forgot all about that." He looked at the others and grimaced, shaking his head slowly. "That must have been the first time they met, Mercer and Mike, at the trial."

"Mike never mentioned that," Dan said quietly.

"Mike hasn't said _anything_ ," Haseejian stated flatly, a touch of anger in his tone.

"Well, ah, not to make light of all that but, to get back to my point, how the hell did Mercer get Cord to just walk out of the flop and into his car?" Healey shrugged. "He had a gun maybe…?" he postulated tentatively.

"I'll check out the local gun shops," Lessing volunteered. "At least we know he couldn't have flown here with one. But if he didn't buy it legitly, then we might be shit outa luck finding out who he bought it on the street from, _if_ he bought one at all."

"I agree with Dan," Steve offered, "I think he had to have something like a gun or Cord woulda decked him. Might want to check into cuffs too."

"But Cord didn't have marks on his wrists from cuffs or Bernie woulda caught it," Haseejian threw in.

"Maybe he incapacitated Cord with the first blow? The cuffs wouldn't've left any marks if he didn't struggle against them," Lessing chimed in.

"And Mike could've taken them off and gotten rid of them before the first black-and-white arrived." Steve punctuated this possibility with raised eyebrows and a heavy sigh.

"But why?" Lessing asked.

"Because they weren't police issue?" Tanner offered with a shrug. "Who knows? I mean, we're all just spitting into the wind here, nobody knows what really happened yet, do we?"

Steve inhaled loudly. "Not yet but this jigsaw puzzle is slowly coming together, I can feel it."

"I agree," said Haseejian with a nod and a far-away stare. "But you know what really bothers me now…" He waited till all eyes were on him before he continued. "I'm concerned about those last four hours. Zelda told you she thought it was around ten o'clock when Mike met her on the Embarcadero and sent her on her way, right?"

Dan Robbins nodded.

"And the first black-and-white showed up at 1:53… after dispatch received the anonymous call about an altercation in the warehouse at Pier 5, right?"

Nods all around.

"So what really happened in those four hours?" He looked up at the others and his face was as serious as they had ever seen. "No matter how much we uncover about what happened up until those three paths crossed in the warehouse, if we don't find the answer to _that_ question, gentlemen, we can forget about ever getting Mike out of prison."

# # # # #

" _Hey, kiddo, there's another package of goodies in the mail to youse guys. We got Mercer's prints offa glass of wine and a water glass - keep the applause down – and we're sending 'em –_ and _there's a financial report in there too. Turns out our accountant friend ain't too good handling his own money. He has three mortgages out on his house, so unless he wins a lottery soon or spends some time in Atlantic City, he's not gonna own that house for long._

" _On the other hand, the ex-Mrs. owns her house free and clear with no liens against it and zero debt – we should all be so lucky. Anyway, all that's in the package too._

" _Screech…. screech…. screech…. That's the sound of some more nails comin' out of that coffin, in case you weren't sure._

" _Anyway, give me a call when you get the chance and bring me up to speed, and let me know when you want us to put the cuffs on Mercer. I'm having a hard time waiting._

" _This is the City of Brotherly Love saying goodbye to the city where Tony Bennett left his heart. See ya, kid."_

Sprawled out on the couch, Steve laughed as the cassette tape clicked to a stop and rewound. So many things had been brought into the light in the last twenty-four hours that it was getting hard to keep everything straight.

But despite the leaps and bounds they had taken, Haseejian's words kept rattling around in his brain. What _had_ happened during the four hours that midnight bisected on that chilly night in September?

Only three people knew that answer, and one of them was dead.

# # # # #

Life behind bars had an almost comforting routine that he was rapidly getting used to, but that did little to salve the ache and longing in his heart. His days now consisted of meals in the mess hall, working all day in the library, a little time in the gym trying to stay fit and then an evening on his bunk working his way through some of the best sellers he had never had time to read before. Sundays offered him the chance to participate, albeit in a limited way, in his favourite sport, an activity which was rapidly becoming the highlight of his long and lonely week.

And though his days were full, his heart was both empty and troubled. He missed his old life more than he could have imagined, but as hard as that reality was to acknowledge, it paled next to the longing to see his daughter and his friends and colleagues.

Steve and Dan's visit had rattled him a lot more than he'd initially realized. The knowledge that they were unraveling more and more about the night Leonard Cord was murdered was alarming and disturbing.

If only they would let sleeping dogs lie… but Steve wouldn't do that, he knew. It was one of the costs, and benefits, of the bond he shared with the remarkable young man who had walked into his life a little more than nine years before. It was a connection that neither of them would willingly break, no matter what the cost.

He turned onto his side so he was facing the wall. To the others in the small sleeping cubicle, it looked like he was just getting into a more comfortable position to continue reading the thick paperback book he was halfway through. In reality it was so they couldn't see the silent tears that trickled down his cheeks.


	34. Chapter 34

Over the next several days, try as they might, the six members of 'Mike's Team' could uncover nothing that would help explain what had happened during those four critical hours in the warehouse on Pier 5 the night Leonard Cord was murdered. And it gave more than one of them restless nights.

Steve had almost sleepwalked his way through an early afternoon lecture on fundamental forensic techniques and was looking forward to getting a quick nap in his office before a faculty dinner meeting.

After fending off several eager students with questions about an upcoming exam, he managed to retreat to the solace of his office, locking the door behind him. Tossing his briefcase on the couch, he crossed around to the far side of the desk to check for messages. There were several. He sat heavily and sifted through them; Dan Robbins had called an hour before.

He picked up the handset and dialed the Homicide office number he would remember till his dying day, he thought with a warm chuckle. Dan answered the phone right away.

The call was short; there was nothing new to report but Dan just wanted him to know that the lab had compared all the fingerprints they had recovered from the apartment Mercer had rented for Charlie Albertson to the prints sent from Philadelphia, and there were no matches.

Neither man was surprised; it had been a longshot at best. It would have gone a long way towards making the case against Gordon Mercer; they would just need to find their proof somewhere else.

Hanging up, Steve sat quietly in the comfortable leather chair, thinking. After several minutes spent thinking through everything they had uncovered so far, he picked up the phone and dialed the same number once more.

"Inspector Robbins, Homicide."

"Dan, it's me again. Listen, I want to run something past you and the other guys, and I'd like to do it sooner than later. I have a faculty dinner tonight at 6 but I should be able to get away by 8. Can you see if you can get the guys together at your place for 8:30?"

"Sure, I'll give it a try. If I can't get everyone, do you want to postpone till we can?"

"No," Steve said quickly, "no, sorry. Look, it's just a little over two weeks till Christmas and it'll take a miracle, with what we've got right now, to get Mike out before then, but I think we have to try. That's what I want to talk to everybody about."

"Okay, I'll do my best. See ya tonight."

# # # # #

"Sorry I'm late," Steve apologized as he stepped over the threshold, nodding at Dan who was holding the door open for him. "My department head doesn't know when to, ah, _edit_ himself sometimes."

"Ah, loves the sound of his own voice?" Haseejian asked with a chuckle.

"If that was his only fault, I could overlook it… He's not Mike, that's for sure." Steve shrugged off his overcoat and hung it on top of some others on a peg near the door. He finally looked around the room; the entire team was in attendance. "I'm glad you could all make it."

"You want a beer?" Lessing offered, playing host as he was closest to the kitchen.

Steve shook his head. "No, thanks, I had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner." He turned to Dan. "You got any coffee?"

With a warm chuckle, Mike's partner nodded. "I can put some on. Anyone else want some?" There were a couple of 'sure's' and nods. "Okay, I'll put on a full pot." He disappeared into the kitchen.

The others made small talk until he reappeared with the fresh pot, mugs, spoons, milk and sugar on a large tray and set it on the coffee table. When they had all finally settled back with cups in hand, Steve took the floor.

"Look, ah, I know we'd set a goal for ourselves of getting Mike back home by Christmas but we're starting to cut it a little fine. And I also know there are some… gaps in our timeline that we haven't been able to fill, and that could be our biggest problem. But… and I've given this a lot of thought… I think we should compile what we've dug up so far and take it to Gerry and see what he says."

He paused and looked at the others, who had been staring at him silently with expressions varying from agreement to doubt. Everyone shifted slightly where they sat but nobody said anything.

Finally Haseejian cleared his throat. "Do you really think we're ready?"

Steve tilted his head, looking away briefly. "Look, I know we have that big gap when Cord was actually killed that we can't… account for, but the rest of it, even though it's all circumstantial right now…"He paused briefly to collect his thoughts. "I know Mike and I got convictions on cases with even less circumstantial evidence. It's all in how it's presented, as you guys well know…"

There were nods all around.

"And I think we have enough circumstantial evidence right now to at least implicate Gordon Mercer in the murder… as an accomplice…? I mean, Zelda puts him at the pier the same time as Cord… hell, he _brought_ Cord there. That has to shed some doubt on Mike being the sole killer, right? And it should warrant at least a reopening of the case, if we can prove he wasn't there alone and he was covering for someone else."

There were more nods, but Healey was frowning skeptically.

"What?" Steve asked him.

The Robbery sergeant inhaled deeply and shook his head slightly. "I don't want to rain on the parade here, but I think those four hours are not that easily glossed over. Just putting Cord at the scene when Mike was there doesn't absolve Mike of the manslaughter charge. That will stay, he'll remain incarcerated, and Mercer will be charged as an accomplice and face the same sentence." He shrugged almost apologetically. "Then how has that helped Mike?" He paused and raised his eyebrows.

They looked at each other, troubled.

"And…" Healey continued playing devil's advocate, "we still haven't explained how Mike broke his hand…"

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as the stares turned inward. Eventually Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked at Healey. "I know you're right, Dan, but something in my gut is telling me we're not gonna find out anything more about those four hours in the warehouse unless we hear it straight from Mike or Mercer… And as well as I know Mike - as well as we all know him - he's not going to tell us. It's gone this far… what else does he have to lose, right?"

He glanced at Dan Robbins and the younger man nodded in agreement.

"And as for Mercer…" Steve shrugged, "who knows? He might come clean and tell us what happened but he might not, and then it's Mike's confession against Mercer's silence. And nothing changes." He paused and exhaled loudly. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I want to take that chance. I want to go to Gerry and lay everything out for him, point by point, layer by layer, and see if he thinks we have enough for him to approach a judge." He looked at each of them individually. "I think we should do it, but I also think it should be a unanimous decision amongst us all."

Steve sat back in the armchair, picked up his coffee cup and took a sip, allowing the others some time to think. Dan, who'd been staring at the floor, looked up and nodded. "I think you're right."

Lessing smiled. "So do I."

Tanner glanced at Lessing and chuckled. "Me too."

Steve looked at Haseejian. "You got my vote," the Armenian sergeant grinned and winked.

They all looked at Healey, whose face had remained impassive. The big man leaned forward slowly then shook his head. "I'm afraid it's unanimous," he intoned flatly, and it took a couple of long seconds before the others realized what he had said.

Steve began to laugh first, throwing his head back and running a hand through his hair. Healey grinned as the others started to react.

"Okay," Steve said finally when things started to settle down, "I guess I'll give Gerry a call tomorrow –"

"I'll do it," Dan said, cutting him off. He looked at Steve and shrugged ruefully, "Mike's my partner, I think I should be the one to broach the subject with Gerry. Is that okay?"

Steve hesitated for a second then nodded. "Of course. That makes perfect sense."

Relieved, Dan nodded. "Great. I'll, ah, I'll call first thing in the morning and see when we can get in to see him."

"Ah, if I can play polemicist again –" Healey began.

"What?!" Haseejian almost roared, shaking his head with a chuckle.

Steve grinned to himself, despite the seriousness of the situation.

Healey shot his former partner a peeved glare then continued to Steve, "Don't you think it might be a little premature to go straight to Gerry? What do you say we take our case to Roy, lay it out for him and see if he can find any holes - other than the obvious ones we already know about - so we can plug them before we take it to Gerry and he tosses us out on our asses?" He sat back and let his proposal sink in.

The others exchanged glances then focused on Steve, who was staring unfocused into the middle distance. He began to nod slowly then looked up into Healey's stare. "I think that's a great idea."

Healey smiled, trying not to look too pleased with himself.

"All right then," said Dan with a chuckle, "I'll talk to Roy first thing tomorrow morning and see when he's free."

# # # # #

Captain Roy Devitt sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. He looked up from the papers scattered atop his desk to the four faces staring at him. An expectant silence enveloped the room.

Eventually, with a worried glance at Haseejian first, Healey prompted, "Well, what do you think?"

Devitt looked directly at him, then allowed his eyes to take them all in before he leaned forward. He smiled grimly at Dan Robbins then allowed a slight smile to soften his features. "Well, you've got some holes here, obviously… like those four hours in the warehouse… and you've got no explanation - other than the obvious, of course – for Mike's broken hand…" He exhaled sharply in frustration with a quick shake of his head. "But I think you have a great case against Mercer here. It's solid."

Tanner glanced at Dan and smiled; Haseejian sighed with relief.

Healey's frown got a little deeper. "But…?" the Robbery sergeant prompted and Devitt's pale eyes turned in his direction.

"Implicating Mercer doesn't exonerate Mike, you all gotta know that, right?"

Dan Robbins glanced at Healey then leaned forward slightly. "We're aware of that, Roy, but Steve thinks that if we can get Gerry to consider re-opening the case, then he might be able to finally convince Mike to come clean about what happened that night."

Devitt's head reclined as he sat back and scowled. He looked at each one of them before asking, "Is that what this is all about it?" He gestured at the reports and papers piled on the desk. "Coercion?"

Healey tilted his head and smiled wryly. "If it works. We're all convinced Mike is covering for Mercer, but we just don't know exactly why. I mean, I think we all have our theories, but theories won't get Mike released."

"And until his back is to the wall, Mike is going to keep his mouth shut," Dan continued. "Steve thinks, and we all agree, that if Mike thinks Gerry is re-opening the case to go after Mercer…. Well, he might tell us what actually happened… and how he broke his hand."

Devitt sat in silence for several long seconds, staring at each of them individually. Eventually he leaned forward again and picked up a couple of the papers. As he began to stack them, he said almost casually, "Let me know if you need some back-up convincing Gerry, will ya?" He looked up and smiled. "If you need another voice in your corner, come back to me, okay?"

Momentarily confused, the four detectives looked at each other; then Haseejian laughed. "Thanks, Roy," he almost roared, getting to his feet and starting to help with the papers.

Dan reached across the desk and shook Devitt's hand. "Thank you," he breathed.

"You're welcome," Devitt chuckled. "You know, I'd like to get Mike back here too, so he can take this job back."

"Tell me about it," Dan nodded wistfully, his eyes flicking to the door, to the black letters spelling out his partner's name still on the glass.

The papers collected, the four detectives turned to leave the small office. "Hey, fellas," Devitt's voice stopped them, "you guys've done a hell of a job here. Mike'd be proud of you all, you know that, right?" There were a couple of reluctant nods and sad smiles. "And, ah, good luck with Gerry."


	35. Chapter 35

Sergeant Norm Haseejian pulled the form out of the typewriter, laid it on the desk and leaned over it, tapping his pen nervously against the blotter as he proofread the report. His eyes kept darting to the black phone on the corner of the desk, his attention so divided he had to start again at the top of the page.

He looked up at the wall clock. 2:53. He sighed and started to read the report again.

# # # # #

Inspector Lee Lessing, notebook and pen in hand, his collar pulled up against the biting wind blowing in off the ocean, was standing on the trail near Lands End, interviewing an older couple out for a hike who had stumbled across a badly decomposed body.

He, Inspector Bill Tanner and several members of the forensics team had had to slog their way up from the parking lot at the Legion of Honor. A preliminary examination of the body and surrounding area showed indications that this might not be a single body dump, and preparations were being made to widen the search area. It was going to be a long night.

As surreptitiously as possible, pretending to be looking around the wooded area, Lessing shot his cuff and glanced at his watch. 2:55. He cleared his throat and Tanner looked over from his place near the body. Tanner grimaced, raising his right hand to his head, thumb and little finger extended in the universal sign for 'phone call'. Lessing shrugged and shook his head.

They were a long way from a telephone.

# # # # #

Associate Professor Steve Keller was in the well of the lecture hall, midway through his talk on Quantitative Research Methods. It was one of his favourite courses and his enthusiasm for the subject was usually contagious. But his heart wasn't in it today; his eyes kept drifting to the large clock on the wall behind him. 2:59.

Trying to get his mind back on the various techniques used in data collection and interpretation, he turned to face his students once again, his volume rising slightly as he focused on the task at hand.

# # # # #

Sergeant Dan Healey and Inspector Dan Robbins were sitting patiently in the large leather guest chairs in the Assistant District Attorney's spacious wood-paneled office. They had spent the last two and a half hours laying out their argument for re-opening the manslaughter case against Mike Stone.

They had painstakingly taken the ADA through all the new information the six members of 'Mike's Team' had compiled in the past couple of months, from the unearthing of the informers at San Quentin, through the discovery of Gordon Mercer's pseudonym, phony I.D.'s and flights to and from Maryland, Charlie and Zelda, the apartment, the rental car, the doctor and hospital visits - everything up to the night of Leonard Cord's murder.

It was an impressive presentation, and both detectives felt good about the effort they had all put in and the results they had achieved.

Now it was up to the discretion of the ADA as to whether he would recommend a re-opening of the case or not.

O'Brien's eyes were flitting over the myriad of papers, forms and reports on his desk, his hands steepled in front of his face. Other than a slight frown, he was expressionless. After several long seconds, he looked up at the two detectives and a barely visible smile played across his lips.

"This is very impressive, gentlemen. There's a lot of new material here… a lot." His eyebrows rose and his smile got a little wider. "I'm going to need some time, I'm afraid, to look over all this again before I can give you my answer."

Dan flashed a concerned look at Healey who, with a wry smile, nodded. "That's completely understandable, Ger. We kinda hit you with a lot all at once." He glanced at Dan. "But, ah, just so I'm reading you right," he continued slowly and carefully, "you're telling us that you think we might have enough here to re-open the case…?"

O'Brien looked at him and smiled. "Don't put words in my mouth, Dan, I didn't say that. I said I'd look over it all again and I'll let you know." He shook his head and chuckled. "You guys… I tell you…" He looked at Dan Robbins and sobered. "Look, I know this is for Mike, I know how much you want to believe he didn't do it… but I have to go with the evidence. I'll go through all this again," he gestured at the paperwork on his desk, "and I'll get in touch with you, Dan," he indicated Healey, "as soon as I can and let you know what I decide. How does that sound?"

The detectives looked at each other and nodded. Smiling, Dan Robbins turned back to O'Brien and extended his right hand as he stood. "That's all we can ask for, Gerry. Thanks a lot," he said warmly, pumping the lawyer's hand.

"You're welcome." O'Brien gripped Dan's hand tightly. "Hey, I consider Mike a friend as well as a colleague, and I'd like to see him home too."

Swallowing heavily, Dan nodded. "Thanks."

"Dan," O'Brien acknowledged as he shook Healey's hand, "I'll call you as soon as I've made my decision, but don't expect to hear from me till at least tomorrow afternoon. I have a pretty full plate right now."

"You got it. Thanks, Ger."

# # # # #

"Okay, well, I guess that's as best as we could hope for," Steve said, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. "So, another day of hanging from tenterhooks, hunh? Great…"

Dan chuckled. "Yeah. But he seemed… I don't know… I don't want to say hopeful because it wasn't that so much… he just seemed open to having his mind changed, I guess. I mean, he didn't shut the door on us, so that's something?"

"Did he say anything about the missing four hours or Mike's broken hand?"

"Hmmh, no, he didn't. I found that a little disconcerting 'cause I was sure he was going to catch that, but he didn't say a word. And Dan and I didn't bring it up of course, but Gerry's no dummy, I'm sure he caught it. I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

"Yeah," Steve said softly; he knew they were both contemplating what that could mean.

"Anyway," Dan broke the brief silence, "it's out of our hands now. I think Dan did a superb job of presenting everything – you know, he's really good at that."

"He is the best," Steve agreed, knowing that was why he recommended that the former Homicide sergeant accompany Dan to the meeting. "Oh, ah, almost forgot – I got a call from Jeannie earlier today – she said she couldn't get ahold of you and I didn't tell her why. Anyway, she's coming home for Christmas after all; she's gonna get here on Friday."

"That's great. I was hoping she'd come down."

"Yeah, anyway, she, ah, she says she wants to do as normal a Christmas as possible, so she's gonna get a turkey and do Christmas dinner and the tree and everything. She wants us over on Saturday night to help put up the tree and then on Christmas Day for dinner. That okay with you?"

Dan chuckled almost sadly. "Well, it's sure not going be the same without Mike but of course I'll be there." He paused. "Did, ah, did she say anything about going down to Tehachapi to see him?"

"Ah, no, no, she didn't. I have a feeling that's something we're going to talk about on Saturday, so be prepared. Anyway, she said she'd give you a call and talk to you all about it – figure out what veggie dinner you want this year while we gnaw turkey meat off the bones," he chuckled sadistically, "just so you know. She might call you tonight."

"Okay, thanks. And thanks for the visual, I appreciate that." They shared the laugh.

"Listen, ah, I'm finished with classes and stuff now till the New Year, but I have some work to do here in the office the next couple of days. But if you get a call from Gerry tomorrow saying he wants to see you and Dan, can you give me a call? I'd kinda like to be there when he tells us what his decision is."

"Yeah, sure, of course, that'd be great. Yeah, I have a feeling he's not going to tell just one of us over the phone. I think he's pretty tuned in to the fact that there were the six of us working on this, so I'll let you know for sure."

"Great, thanks. Appreciate it."

"No problem. Have a good night and I'll probably see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, you too."

# # # # #

He was so deeply engrossed in the essay before him that he didn't even hear the first ring from the black phone on the corner of his desk. Not taking his eyes from the page he was reading, he picked up the handset and brought it to his ear.

"Keller," he said automatically.

"Steve, it's Dan."

His head came up quickly, the essay forgotten. "Yeah, Dan, what's up?"

"We just got the call from O'Brien. We're to meet him in his office at four. Can you be there?"

Steve looked down at his wristwatch. 2:27.

"Yeah, no problem. I'll be there."

"Great."

"Did, ah, did you get an inkling of which way he was leaning?"

"No, sorry, it was his secretary. I guess we'll find out when we get there."

"Yeah, okay, see you then."

He cradled the handset and sat there without moving for several long seconds. Then he was up, snagging his jacket from the back of the leather chair and grabbing his overcoat from the rack on the way out the door.

# # # # #

The only member of 'Mike's Team' unable to make it to the Assistant District Attorney's office was Lessing, who was heading up the investigation into the potential serial killer who had left three bodies up on Lands End. Steve was the last to arrive but well before the appointed time.

He had just taken off his overcoat when the door to the inner office opened and O'Brien beckoned them in. There were only three guest chairs so the younger members of the group, Steve and Dan, stood.

After perfunctory salutations, O'Brien crossed around to his chair and sat. The file Dan and Healey had left with him was sitting in the center of the desk.

O'Brien's smile revealed nothing as he put both hands on the file and glanced at all his guests before his eyes settled on Dan Healey. "I know you gentlemen are anxious to know my decision but before I get to that, let me congratulate you on a very thorough and detailed investigation into Gordon Mercer and his connection to Leonard Cord. It's truly amazing the amount of work that's gone into this case… and, if your goal is to convince me that Gordon Mercer was instrumental in the murder of Leonard Cord, you have succeeded. There's no doubt about that."

There was an audible release of deeply held breaths. The five members of the 'Team' glanced at each other in relief.

O'Brien frowned, holding up both hands. "Uh, fellas, I don't want to burst your bubble here but, ah…" Five pairs of suddenly very concerned eyes snapped in his direction. The attorney took a deep breath before he continued. "Listen, if your goal was to implicate Gordon Mercer, you did that, in spades and then some. But if your goal was to get Mike released," he gestured at the file and shook his head slightly, "you don't have enough here. I'm sorry, fellas."

The looks they exchanged this time were frowns of frustration and disappointment. Healey leaned forward. "What, exactly, do you mean, Gerry?"

The ADA took a deep breath. "You've made the case for both Mercer and Mike being in the warehouse with Cord during the timeframe when he was killed, that's a given. There's no doubt about that. But there are no details here about what happened during that time. Did Mike beat him to death, like he said he did? Was it Mercer? Or did they both do it? And if, like I know you hope, Mercer did it and Mike is covering for him, then how do you explain Mike's broken knuckle? An injury, I know from the hospital report, that can only occur when the hand is slammed against something as hard or harder than itself, like a jaw…"

"Or a wall…" Haseejian offered quietly. Everyone looked at him; Healey gestured towards him as he looked back at O'Brien with his eyebrows raised.

"Then if he hit a wall, find the wall. Find whatever else he hit that wasn't Leonard Cord, because right now that's what you need to do if you want me to take this to a judge and not be laughed out of court." O'Brien looked at them all apologetically. "Until then, gentlemen, I'm afraid Mike Stone will be staying where he is."


	36. Chapter 36

**Many thanks to all my loyal readers and reviewers.**

 **I honestly never thought this story would be this long; thanks for sticking with it!**

The waitress crossed the darkened pub with a large tray, setting it on the table then placing the pint glasses in front of the five morose looking men slumped in the wooden armchairs. "Here you go," she said quietly with a smile, glancing at them all with a slight frown.

A couple of them looked up and nodded; one managed a soft, "Thank you."

She nodded back, moved the stack of menus slightly to emphasize their presence then started back towards the bar.

It was almost a full minute before Tanner, with a glance at the others, reached for his glass and picked it up. "Well, we all knew going in that this could happen…"

Healey snorted. "Yeah… but it still doesn't make it any easier to take."

Steve nodded almost absent-mindedly. Dan exhaled loudly.

Haseejian was staring at the floor. "Gerry was right though, we _do_ have to find out what happened that night. But I'll be damned how we're going to do it because I'm pretty sure we're not going to get anything outa Mike… not at this point."

"You're right about that," Dan agreed reluctantly. "Whatever little game he's playing, he's won."

Healey and Tanner nodded slightly.

"But it's not a game," Steve said softly, "and I, for one, am not going to give up."

"I don't think any of us are going to give up," Haseejian said quickly, glancing at the others.

Steve smiled warmly. "I know that, Norm, I didn't mean it that way. I'm just… frustrated… and disappointed. I was hoping to have some good news for Jeannie when she flies in on Friday."

"She's coming home for Christmas?" Tanner asked with a grin.

Both Steve and Dan nodded. "Yeah, she wants to celebrate the holidays like they've always done – tree, turkey, everything. Hey, if any of you guys are free on Christmas Day and want a turkey dinner…?"

The others shook their heads. "Bonnie and I are heading to Phoenix to visit her parents for a couple of days," Healey grinned. Haseejian and Tanner were both spending the day with their extended families; Lessing was engaged to be married, so they knew where he would be all day.

Steve sat forward and reached for the menus. "Gentlemen, as hard as it is to admit, we're not going to be getting Mike home before Christmas, but that doesn't mean we can't get him out in the New Year. We've all worked extremely hard these past couple of months and I think we should be proud with what we've accomplished."

He passed the menus around the table. "I say we take a few days off over the holidays – it's going to be hard to get anything done anyway – and start fresh after Christmas." He smiled. "Who knows… maybe one of us'll have a brainstorm and all this will become just a bad dream." He gestured towards the menus. "Let's have dinner – it's on me tonight."

Dan's head snapped back and he looked at Healey, who instantly frowned. Tanner snorted a laugh which was drowned out by Haseejian's "What?! You're gonna buy us all dinner?"

Steve froze and stared at the Armenian sergeant. "Not to put too fine a point on it, Norm, but I make a bit more as a professor - and I have private students too, remember? – than I ever did on the force. Consider it an early Christmas present…"

"Well, in that case," Haseejian said with a pleased smirk and tilt of his head as he opened the menu, and the others laughed.

# # # # #

The heavy wooden door slammed open and the pointy end of a Monterey Pine was thrust through the opening, accompanied by the grunting and groaning of the two unfortunate volunteers trying to manhandle it into the house.

"For god's sake, don't knock the lamps over!" Jeannie shouted from somewhere further down the concrete steps, trying not to laugh as Steve and Dan tried to force the 6-foot Christmas tree, it's branches bound with twine, around the steep bend from the stairs into the house.

Finally successful, they hefted it over the threshold then across the living room to where the forest green metal stand stood on several open newspaper pages in the far corner. With a further chorus of groans, they straightened the tree then, as Steve held it upright, Dan got onto his hands and knees to guide the lower end of the trunk into the ring at the top of the stand. Successful, Steve held the tree and grinned at Jeannie while Dan tightened the screws around the ring.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" she laughed as she closed the door, glancing down at the small trail of pine needles across the floor.

"I seem to remember it was easier when Mike was on the other end," Steve huffed, trying to catch his breath.

"I heard that!" Dan's voice came from under the tree and Jeannie giggled.

"You guys get that thing locked in and cut the twine, and I'll start dinner."

"I thought we were going to decorate it?"

"We have to let it settle first, remember. I figured we'd have dinner and it should be ready to start trimming after that. I bought steaks," she looked at Steve with raised eyebrows, "and I made an artichoke spinach lasagna for you Dan," she raised her voice and bent down towards him slightly.

"That sounds incredible, Jeannie, thanks!" came the reply from under the tree.

"That _does_ sound good," Steve agreed with a surprised nod then continued quickly, "but I'll still take the steak."

"I thought you would," she grinned. "I'm also making fried onions and hash brown potatoes. Sound good?"

"Sounds delicious."

"Great. I'll be back with a couple of beers." She disappeared into the kitchen.

Steve had picked her up at the airport the afternoon before. It was a bittersweet reunion, and by unspoken mutual consent they had decided to talk about everything except her father. It turned out not to be as hard as either had expected; they had so much to catch up on.

He had just dropped her off; she wanted to spend that first night, without her father, alone. She had wandered the house for a time, feeling lost, heartsick in the knowledge that he wasn't just working late and would eventually come in the door, tired but overjoyed to see her, as had happened so many times over the years.

Steve and Dan had met her at the Christmas tree lot mid-afternoon and helped her pick out the Monterey Pine, strapping it across a blanket on the top of the Porsche, which elicited a lot of stunned stares on the way home; especially when the Porsche was being followed by a Jeep and a family sedan, the more rational choices.

Now, after cutting the twine that released the branches on the bound tree and washing the sap off their hands, the two men were sitting back, enjoying the cold beer and the prospect of a home-cooked meal.

From his position on the couch, Steve looked around the living room. Jeannie had begun to put up some of the decorations, and the stockings were already hanging from the small hooks on the mantel. As usual, there were four: _Mike, Jeannie, Steve_ and, the most recent addition, _Dan_. It was a silly tradition that Mike loved to keep – he would fill all their stockings with frivolous things like a Mandarin orange or a Pez dispenser, tiny bottles of scotch or a chocolate bar. But there was always one item of value, either monetary or sentimental.

Steve smiled, remembering. Three years ago, the gift had been bought as a joke, and Mike was truly not prepared for the reaction it received. It was the first Christmas after Steve had retired, after he had almost died in the line of duty. He was working at Berkeley by then, settling into his new life as an academic, but still maintaining regular and much-needed contact with the man who had come to mean so much to him.

He had been spending Christmas Day with the Stones as he had done since they'd become partners almost seven years before. And he had heard Mike chuckling when he opened the little wrapped box and taken out the two small rectangular aluminum plates on a long ball chain. Both plates were debossed.

Steve stared at them and swallowed heavily. He heard Mike's laughter fade away and the older man said quietly, "They're dog tags. One's you… and the other's me…"

He held the tags closer. One of them had his name, blood type and penicillin allergy in concave lettering stamped into it. The other had Mike's name and blood type. He looked up to see two suddenly worried blue eyes watching him.

He smiled slowly, trying to keep his lower lip from trembling and the tears from his eyes. He was close enough to be able to reach out and place a hand on the back of the older man's neck and squeeze; he had been too overwhelmed to speak.

He cleared his throat and shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. Almost absent-mindedly he reached up, his fingertips touching the chain that was always around his neck, hidden under his shirt, forever close to his heart.

# # # # #

The delicious dinner out of the way, and a good portion of a bottle of red wine consumed, they set about the task of trimming the tree. Jeannie, as per the custom, was in charge of unwrapping the many ornaments the Stone family had accumulated over the years and carefully kept in storage. Steve was handling the two strings of treelights, with the unenviable task of trying to find the one burnt out bulb amongst all the rest; it was the ultimate test of patience and perseverance. Dan was the master of garlands and tinsel, and scaling the kitchen stepladder to set the angel on the top.

They had kept the conversation light and had even managed to talk about Mike without guilt or sorrow. And there was a great deal of laughter, especially over Steve's growing frustration at not being able to find the errant bulb. At one point he threw back his head and roared, "This is the perfect example of Einstein's definition of insanity!" It was several minutes until any real work on the tree could start again.

They had the two strands of lights laid out across the living room floor and all three of them were screwing and unscrewing the small multi-coloured bulbs in an attempt to find the offending dud. There was actually more laughing than practical work being done. Steve had just thrown another bulb across the room when the phone rang.

Laughing, Jeannie got to her feet and crossed to the black table phone on the far endtable. "Hello?" She listened, her body stiffening slightly. Still sitting cross-legged on the floor, both men looked up at her. She glanced their way. "Yes, yes, I'll accept the charges." Their eyes widened. "Mike?... Yes… yes, I made it home safe and sound… The house looks great, Dan's been taking good care of it… Yes, yes, I did get a tree. I told you I would… Yeah, from Benny, like we do every year… It's a beauty, a Monterey Pine, of course… About six feet, it's gorgeous."

She glanced at Steve and Dan, whose eyes hadn't left her face. "Yes, yes, um, actually they're both here right now. We just had dinner and they're helping me decorate the tree… Yeah, I got the turkey this morning from Tony, one of those fresh ones… No, not too big this year, fourteen pounds… Yeah… Yeah, they're both coming… Will they be serving turkey there?... Hopefully it'll be better than what they served at Thanksgiving, right?... What?..." She looked towards the others. "Sure. Just a second."

She put her hand over the mouthpiece and held it out. Her eyes met Steve's. "He wants to talk to you both."

Slowly, with a glance at Dan, Steve got to his feet and crossed the room, taking the phone from her outstretched hand. "Mike?"

"Steve, how are you doing? Jeannie tells me you're helping her put up the tree again. Does she have you doing the lights?"

Trying to stop his heart from pounding, Steve laughed. "What else is new? How do you do it every year? We can't get them to work, there must be a burnt out bulb and we've been trying for over an hour to find which one it is."

"You obviously weren't paying attention all those years when it was _my_ job. This is what you do. Stretch the string out and make sure all the bulbs are in securely first. You'd be surprised how many times it turns out to be just a loose bulb…"

They talked for almost five minutes, about the Christmas tree lights and the weather and sports; anything except what was foremost on both their minds.

Steve passed the phone to Dan then sat beside Jeannie on the sofa with his arm around her shoulders. She had begun to cry quietly. By the time the phone was returned to her to say her goodbyes, she had her emotions under control.

In silence, they made their way back to the floor and the strings of lights. Doing exactly what Mike had told Steve to do, they found the blown bulb within ten minutes.

They also found a profound sense of peace and love that stayed with them for the rest of the night.


	37. Chapter 37

The mess hall was full, the volume of voices almost deafening high. The rules of silence had been relaxed because of the day, but the vigilance of the armed guards had not been compromised.

Mike was on the end of one of the long tables, trying to remain invisible, not in the mood to interact with anyone. The day was turning out to be harder to face than he had thought.

A food tray slammed down on the table near his elbow; he jumped slightly but resisted the instinct to turn in that direction. When someone dropped heavily onto the seat beside him, he shifted his own tray over and moved away slightly.

"You having a bad day?" the deep baritone asked almost kindly and Mike instantly recognized the voice.

He smiled softly, turning to look at the smiling face of Ben Driscoll.

Mike swallowed heavily. "My daughter is hosting a turkey dinner at my house for my partners, past and present."

"And you wish you were there, right?"

Mike raised his eyebrows with a facial shrug and a wry snort.

"Hey," Driscoll said gently, "we all wish that. You know, the first Christmas is always the hardest. It gets easier, believe me… So you goin' to call her?"

"Today?"

Driscoll nodded.

Mike shook his head. "No, not today. I talked to her Saturday… and that was hard enough… I don't think I'd make it through a call today without… you know…" He cleared his throat, looking down. "So, ah, what about you? You have someone coming to see you today?"

Driscoll beamed. "Yeah, my wife and little girl are coming in later on this afternoon. She's driving down from The City."

"Good for you."

Driscoll could see the older man was having trouble dealing with the separation; he glanced down at the tray in front of him and changed the subject. "So, ah, how's the turkey?"

Mike looked at his own tray and chuckled. "Well, it's better than at Thanksgiving…"

Driscoll laughed as he picked up his knife and fork. Mike smiled warmly as he watched the almost contented young man beside him dig into the gravy-laden plate, grateful for the unexpected friendship in such an unforgiving place.

# # # # #

Christmas Day in the Stone house turned out to be a much happier time than any of them had anticipated. The Saturday night phone call from Mike had acted like a panacea, lifting their spirits in ways they really couldn't comprehend but didn't want to question.

By mutual consent, they had decided not to exchange gifts this year; it just didn't feel right. But they had planned to spend the day together - Jeannine, Steve and Dan – with the turkey dinner to be served around 3 pm, and then opening the house to friends in the evening. The Potrero Street house was filled with cops, both current and former, Berkeley faculty and students, Dan's hiking buddies, Jeannie's school friends and a good smattering of neighbours.

It was a wonderful day of great food and great friends sharing the warmth and good will of the holidays. And through it all, a colour photo of Mike and Steve during their days as partners sat proudly in the centre of the mantel.

The man who was not there was foremost in everybody's mind.

# # # # #

Mike walked slowly back towards his dormitory. Despite the high energy reverberating around him, and Driscoll's words of encouragement echoing in his ears, he couldn't shake the melancholia that weighed heavily on his shoulders. His decision not to call home today was beginning to feel like the wrong one, but it was too late to do anything about it now. And that only made him feel worse.

He turned into the corridor leading to his cubicle, passing one of the unmarried guards who was on duty today; the married men were at home with their families, where they belonged. The guard smiled at him, nodding genially, even while his hand rested on the grip of the revolver in the holster on his belt.

Mike nodded and smiled back as he stepped into the cubicle, then stopped short when he saw a large wrapped package sitting on his bunk. He looked questioningly at the guard.

"It's been checked out; you can open it."

Mike looked back at the box, noticing suddenly that there was a small brown-wrapped parcel on one of the other beds.

"The mailroom's had these for a few days but waited till today." He shrugged and smiled slightly again. "Merry Christmas…" He moved off a few feet down the corridor.

Sitting slowly, Mike picked up the parcel and placed it on his lap. It was the size of a shoebox and wrapped in Christmas paper. A closer examination revealed that the scotch tape had been removed from the sides then reattached, confirming the guard's assertion that it had been examined and cleared.

Slowly, not knowing what to expect, he pulled the tape back from both ends, unfolded the paper then slid the box out. It was an Adidas shoebox. Frowning, he put the wrapping paper beside him on the blanket then gently lifted the lid.

He gasped slightly then smiled with a surprised chuckle. He reached in and pulled out a brand new left-handed Rawlings baseball glove, a pristine white softball, a small can of saddle soap and a length of twine. And a note.

His throat tightening, and trying to stop his hands from trembling, he opened the note.

' _Here's hoping someone else has a glove so you can play catch. Have fun breaking it in. Merry Christmas – Steve'_

Laughing softly, his vision blurring, he sat back on the bunk, his back against the wall, and cradled the glove against his chest.

# # # # #

Jeannie stood in the kitchen entrance, smiling bewilderedly as her eyes drifted over the now empty and sparkling counters and sink. It had taken almost two hours, but between the three of them, they had managed to wash, dry and put away all the dishes, pots, pans, cutlery and everything else that had gone into the highly successful Christmas Day feast and celebration the previous day.

"Well, we did it, guys, good job," she crowed proudly as she turned towards the living room, stopping short at the sight of her two houseguests lounging on the couch and armchair like exhausted gandy dancers. She frowned comically as she leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. "Oh, come on, you've got to be kidding me. You two do a few dishes and you're wiped out?" She tut-tutted, shaking her head. "Men these days," she muttered under her breath with a sardonic chuckle.

"Hey," Steve groaned, barely raising his head from the back of the armchair, "I don't think I've done that many dishes before in my life. We're not used to it, you know, not like…" He stopped talking, belatedly realizing he was treading the wrong path here as Jeannie uncrossed her arms and planted her fists on her hips.

"Not like… _who_?" she prompted when he failed to complete the sentence. "You didn't finish your thought…. _Who_ …? Could you have meant _me… the woman…_ the one who did all of the preparation and the cooking of the Christmas meal, including – but not necessarily limited to – the stuffing of the turkey and the making of the pies. And not just one kind of pie, mind you, two… and that's not counting all the vegetables and the rolls and the –"

"All right, all right," Steve interrupted, his hands in the air in surrender, "you win." He glanced at Dan, who was desperately trying not to laugh as he watched the exchange like a tennis match.

"Good. Now get off your duffs, we're going out."

"Out?" It was Dan's turn to moan. "Oh, I don't want to go out there – there's too many people out there, all going shopping and driving like idiots…"

He stopped when he noticed Jeannie and Steve looking at him with furrowed brows.

"I've never heard you complain like that before," Steve said quietly.

Dan shrugged and chuckled. "You've never seen me the morning after the night before either… I can be a real homebody…"

Steve looked at Jeannie and raised his eyebrows. "I never woulda thought…"

"I'm not surprised," Jeannie said with a warm smile directed towards her father's current partner. Then she was back to business. "But, like I said, get up, both of you. We're going out."

Another groan from Steve preceded his, "Where?"

"A movie. I don't want to sit around here all afternoon thinking about Mike, so I want to go to a movie." Her voice had taken on a serious edge, and the men glanced at each other. They knew she was right.

Nodding, they both began to crawl to their feet. "A movie," Steve said almost under his breath, stifling a yawn as he stretched. "I haven't been to a movie in months… What were you thinking of seeing?"

She picked up the three-day old entertainment section of the Chronicle and tossed it towards Dan. "You pick one," she said as she crossed to the stairs, "while I get changed."

As she disappeared onto the second floor, Dan looked at Steve and held up the newspaper. "Why do I have to pick?"

"'Cause you're younger than I am?" Steve answered facetiously. "I don't know."

"Great," Dan mumbled as he sat back down on the couch and spread the paper out on the coffee table, bending over it to read the fine print for the movie listings. Steve, who had spent the night in Mike's room, took the stairs two at a time, descending several seconds later with his jacket, watch and wallet. Jeannie was close behind him.

"Picked one?" she asked as she got her heavy jacket out of the hall closet.

"Ah," Dan sighed loudly, "well, I've narrowed it down to four… _The Electric Horseman, Kramer vs. Kramer, Being There_ or _All That Jazz._ You guys pick one." He looked up and smiled.

Jeannie turned to Steve. He put up his hands. "The decision is yours."

"Thanks," she said dryly.

"Hey, I don't care," Steve laughed, shaking his head. "I don't get the chance to go to too many movies so I don't care."

She frowned, smiling. "What was the last movie you saw?"

His gaze unfocussed and he froze momentarily. "Good lord, I can't remember… Oh, yeah, it was _Rocky Two_. I saw it with Mike way back in… oh, I don't know, June? July? Let's just say it was awhile ago."

"Well, let's get a move on so you can see another one before the year ends. Where are they playing?" she asked Dan, and he read off the theatres and the times. _All That Jazz_ was playing closest to Potrero but both men put the kibosh on that selection. Eventually they settled on _Being There_.

As they started out of the house and down the steps, Jeannie noticed that Steve was becoming quieter and quieter. She glanced at him, frowning, as she locked the front door, her eyes on him all the way down the steep concrete steps to the sidewalk.

"Let's take the Jeep," Dan suggested and started towards it across the street.

Steve was bringing up the rear and Jeannie turned to him. He had stopped moving altogether and was frowning, his gaze unfocussed and his mind obviously elsewhere.

"Steve, what is it?" she asked, putting a hand on his forearm, concerned.

He looked at her, his eyes suddenly focusing, and a knowing smile touched his lips. "Oh my god," he breathed.

"What?" she asked, worried.

He shook his head, the smile getting a little wider. "Oh my god," he repeated then looked over her head at Dan, who had stopped near the Jeep and turned back. "Dan, you and Jeannie go on ahead. I have something I have to do."

"But –" Jeannie began.

"No, it can't wait. It can't wait." He turned and started back up the steps, then stopped and looked down at them. "I'm gonna grab my things and head home. I'll, ah, I'll call you when I… well, when I figure this out." He continued up the steps.

Dan and Jeannie looked at each other, shrugging, then she continued across the street and they both got into the Jeep.

Steve used the key to the Stone house that was still on his ring to get back in, sprinting up the stairs to Mike's bedroom to throw his clothes and toiletries into his overnight bag. He couldn't stop grinning, shaking his head and trying not to chuckle with a renewed sense of hope, enthusiasm… and triumph.

"Mike," he mumbled to himself, "you son-of-a-bitch, I got you… I finally got you…"


	38. Chapter 38

Holiday traffic was still a little heavy but he made the trek back to Berkeley in almost record time, though afterwards he barely remembered the trip; his mind was racing.

Before heading home, he dropped by his office at the university. The entire place was empty; it felt strange to walk through the empty corridors, his echoing footsteps a little unnerving. He unlocked the door to his office and crossed to the tall shelves behind the desk.

It took a few seconds to find what he was looking for – four large soft-covered books. They were heavy, and he juggled them awkwardly as he closed the office door and relocked it.

# # # # #

He brought the books into the house first, going back to the Porsche to grab his overnight bag and the large paper bag of leftovers he had taken from the Stone fridge. Jeannie had made 'doggie bags' for both he and Dan.

He filled and plugged in the percolator, then returned to the dining room. He cleared off the old newspapers and discarded mail that covered the table and placed the four books he'd just brought in on it. He took the steps to the second floor two at a time, returning with a pad of yellow legal paper and a handful of pens.

He sat, pulling one of the thick, heavy books towards him. He smiled and inhaled deeply. He was starting to feel like a cop again as he opened the San Francisco Yellow Pages and began his search.

# # # # #

A little over an hour and a few cups of coffee later, he stared at the list on the yellow pad in front of him and nodded. It wasn't a long list but he was sure it was thorough.

Getting to his feet, he picked up the four large telephone directories and placed them on the floor near the front door so he would remember to take them back to the office.

Satisfied that he had done all he could on this day after Christmas, he sauntered into the kitchen and made a sandwich from the turkey leftovers. With a plate in one hand and a beer in the other, he wandered back into the living room, put the plate and the beer on the coffee table and turned on the TV.

As the CBS Evening News started, he sat on the couch and smiled; he was almost euphoric. For the first time in a long time, he felt he was close to grabbing the brass ring.

# # # # #

The Porsche came to a gentle stop at the curb in the northbound lane of the Embarcadero in front of Pier 5, then sat there for several long seconds before, signal light blinking, pulled back out into traffic and crossed into the far lane. It made a left turn onto Broadway then eventually another left onto Stockton. It stopped in front of a shop near California and again sat there for a short spell.

The German sports car returned to the pier then headed out again, this time to Valencia, then for a third time to Alvarado just off Castro. When the Porsche headed up Market towards the Embarcadero for the fourth time, it took a right onto the 101 then onto the I-80 and over the Bay Bridge back to Berkeley.

Alone in his office, Steve began making the phone calls he hadn't been able to make the day before. An hour later, he had all the information he needed. He mulled making a return trip to San Francisco but decided to wait until the next morning. Instead, he phoned Jeannie and pumped her about the previous evening, and whether or not she and Dan enjoyed the movie.

He didn't tip his hand.

# # # # #

The yellow legal pad on the seat beside him, Steve glanced down at it as the traffic crawled across the upper span of the Bay Bridge. He'd put numbers beside the items on the list, in order of their significance. But the more he thought about it, the more he had convinced himself that the first name on the list was the only one he would need to 'interview'.

Reaching The City, he made his way off the Bridge, eventually nearing the Stockton Street address he had scouted out the day before. Parking was at a premium and, not having the fringe benefit of being able to park almost anywhere he wanted to anymore, he stalked the nearby streets looking for an open parking space.

Finally finding one, he locked the Porsche and started down the street. Reaching the shop on Stockton, he opened the wood-and-glass front door, a small bell announcing his entrance. A small older man in a grimy white apron and cap looked up from behind the counter. The small shop was empty.

"Good morning, what can I do for ya?" the man behind the counter shouted with a smile.

Steve smiled back and nodded. "Good morning. I was wondering if Mr. Costaldo is in this morning?"

"Mario? No, sorry, Mario's taking the rest of the week off. This place was a zoo before the holidays so he's given himself some time off."

Steve shook his head in disappointment.

"Is there anything I could do for ya?"

"Ah, no, thanks, uh, I need to talk to him personally. He, ah, he witnessed an accident with my car, my Porsche. Some jackass backed into it trying to park here on Stockton last week and the guy now says he didn't do it. Mr. Costaldo told me he witnessed it and if I had any problem, I was to call him and he'd talk to the police for me and get this all straightened out." Lying for the greater good came easy to him after all his years with a badge, he thought.

"Ah geez, that's too bad." The older man seemed to be thinking hard about something. "Listen, ah, I don't think Mario'd mind if I gave you his address. He and his wife don't live too far from here, just over on Hyde. I can't remember the number…" he growled. "Give me a sec and I'll look it up."

"Thank you so much, I really appreciate that," Steve smiled as the older man scurried back out of sight. He looked around the shop and sighed. He hadn't lost his touch.

# # # # #

The house on Hyde Street was a neat and well-kept three-story Victorian. Steve mounted the six steps to the front door and banged the knocker. He only had to wait several seconds before he heard movement inside and the dark green wooden door was opened by a florid-faced, heavyset older man with sparkling blue eyes. He smiled warmly as his eyes fell on his visitor.

"Yes, can I help you?" His voice was a deep baritone.

"I hate to disturb you, Mr. Costaldo, but I'm hoping you can help me. My name is Steve Keller. I used to be a cop, a homicide inspector to be precise. I was Mike Stone's partner."

He watched as the older man's face turned white and his eyes widened.

Steve smiled in elation and relief. "Mr. Costaldo, I believe you and I need to talk."

# # # # #

" _Inspector Robbins, Homicide."_

"Dan, I need you to get all the guys together."

" _Well, hello to you too…"_

"God, I'm sorry, hello, Dan. Can you get the guys together, maybe tonight?"

" _Um, I'll try… Does this have something to do with why you cut out on Jeannie and I so fast the other night?"_

"It has everything to do with that. Look, I, ah… I'll tell you guys about it when I see you. Try to get the guys to agree on a time tonight, and a place, and give me a call, okay. I'm at home."

" _Okay, I'll call you when I know… You think, what…? You found out what happened at the warehouse… or what happened to Mike's hand…?"_

"Both, Dan… both."

# # # # #

Haseejian sat back heavily and glanced at the others. "Jesus Christ, Steve, that's… that's amazing…"

Tanner was shaking his head in awe. "You went from there," he held up his right index finger, "to there," he held up the other index finger, "I mean, ah… how the hell did you do that?"

Steve smiled enigmatically and shrugged. "I know Mike really, really well. I know how his mind works. And something just triggered the memory. The rest was just… good old-fashioned police work."

They all laughed. Healey reached forward and picked up his beer glass from the circular wooden table they were sitting around. "It's like you never left. Cheers, man, well done!" He held up his glass and the others did the same.

"Cheers!" they all intoned, clinking glasses and taking a drink.

"You know," Lessing said quietly, "you've still gotta take all this to Gerry. Is this guy really going to be that last piece of the puzzle?"

Steve nodded, "Oh yeah. He had no idea what had happened, the big picture so to speak, so he was quite shocked when I filled him in… he wants to help Mike."

"So the question now is," Dan postulated softly, "will Mike allow himself to be helped, or will he just deny any connection with Costaldo? I mean, is there any actual physical proof?"

Steve looked at him and frowned slightly. He knew Dan was right. "No, there's no physical proof, just one man's word against another… but you know, right now, I'm believing Costaldo over Mike." He paused and took a deep breath, shaking his head sadly. "I never thought I'd hear myself say that… ever…"

The others nodded sadly, the euphoria tempered somewhat by the reality that they were still neck-deep in a conundrum they were desperate to unravel once and for all.

Sighing loudly, Healey looked at Steve. "So how do you want to handle this?"

The former detective raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly. "Well, I think we bring this new information to Gerry and get his take on it. If he thinks it answers the questions he still has to his satisfaction, then we – and I'm including Gerry and Jack Fowler in this as well – we, ah, we confront Mike with everything we have and hope he recants…" He looked at the others with questioning eyes.

After a few seconds of contemplative silence, the five detectives began to nod. "I think that's the perfect idea," Tanner said softly.

Dan leaned forward and laid a hand gently on Steve's forearm. There were tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly.

# # # # #

The lights in the dormitory snapped on; a chorus of groans and expletives filled the air.

"Quiet!" came the authoritative shout as two heavily armed guards he didn't recognize stepped into Mike's cubicle and approached his bunk. He was awake and staring at them. "Get up!" one of the new guards ordered.

Pushing the heavy grey blanket aside, Mike sat up, dropping his bare feet to the cold floor.

"Get dressed and pack your stuff!" The guard handed him a large paper bag as Mike got to his feet.

Under their watchful eyes, he opened his locker, got into his shirt, pants and shoes, then placed his few personal effects, including the baseball glove and ball, into the paper bag.

"What's happening?" he asked quietly as he finished packing his things, folded the top of the bag and picked it up.

"You're being transferred," the first guard said matter-of-factly as he slammed the locker closed and indicated for Mike to follow the other guard out into the corridor.

Without a word, they navigated the halls until they reached an outside door. A guard Mike knew, Kelsey, was amongst a few others standing at the entrance. As the heavy outside door opened, Kelsey smiled at him slightly. "Take care of yourself," he whispered as Mike followed the other guards out onto the asphalt parking lot towards a nondescript light blue panel van that stood in the centre of the lot, running.

The back door of the van opened and Mike stepped up and sat on the one of the long side benches. One of the guards followed him in, and when he put the paper bag on the floor, the guard snapped handcuffs around his wrists, then linked a chain that was fastened to the floor through the handcuff chain. The back door slammed shut and he felt the van begin to pull away.

He had no idea where he was going.


	39. Chapter 39

He could tell from the smooth road, the speed and the steady unimpeded pace that the van was on a highway, but with no windows he couldn't tell which direction they were heading or even if the sun was beginning to come up.

He had no idea what time it was when his sleep had been interrupted; he didn't have the chance to glance at his watch before putting it in the paper bag. He just knew it was the middle of the night.

He had been sitting in the van for hours now, unable to doze off even for a few seconds, and he was getting very tired. He dropped his head, trying to stretch out the tightness in his back, partly from being forced to sit in the same position for so long, partly the growing exhaustion.

He coughed lightly and the guard's head snapped in his direction. Their eyes met but neither of them said anything. Mike laid his head back against the hard metal on the side of the van and closed his eyes.

For the first time since they'd left Tehachapi, he began to hear the low rumble of other vehicles on the highway around them. The rumble got louder, trucks passing them or they passing trucks. Then the indistinct sound of cars; only a few at first then more and more until it was a seamless cacophony.

They were approaching a major city, Mike knew, but which one? He knew they'd been on the road for hours but in which direction had they gone – north? South?

The van slowed and he knew they had left the highway and were now on surface streets. It seemed to take forever before the van made a turn that took them into an area of quiet; a garage, he thought. Eventually the van stopped and the engine was shut off.

The guard got up and crossed to him, unlocking the chain that looped through his handcuffs and letting it drop noisily to the bed of the van. They could hear the driver's door slam shut and a few seconds later the two back doors opened. The armed driver stepped back. "Get out," he grunted, gesturing once with his hand and, with the guard following, Mike stepped out of the back of the van, looking around.

It was an underground garage that looked instantly familiar and, as his eyes settled on two armed and uniformed police officers standing nearby, he knew exactly where he was.

# # # # #

Healey hung up the wall phone and turned to the group gathered in the anteroom on the third floor of the Hall of Justice. "They're here. They're bringing him up," he said softly, glancing through the two-way mirror.

Lessing opened the door between the two rooms and stuck his head in. "They're on their way," he said to ADA Gerry O'Brien and PBA lawyer Jack Fowler sitting on either sides of the long metal table.

Both attorneys looked up and nodded, their eyes quickly returning to the reams of paper in front of them both, rapidly jotting down notes on their respective legal length pads.

Healey blew out a deeply held breath. "Well, this is it," he sighed and shook his head slightly.

"Yeah," Steve said quietly as he ran a hand through his hair then crossed his arms, unconsciously chewing on his right thumbnail as he stared through the window into the interrogation room.

Dan put a hand on his shoulder. "It's solid, Steve. We've got him and you know it."

"Yeah," Steve sighed, "but he still has to tell us what happened, in his own words, or nothing's gonna change and they'll ship him right back to Tehachapi."

"Trust us, Steve," Healey said with an encouraging smile, glancing over his shoulder at his former partner and the others, "we'll get him to talk. And if we run into trouble, we'll bring you in early - the big gun!"

Steve stared at his former colleague, eyebrows knit, then he smiled. "I don't know if that'd be a good idea," he chuckled, "I just might throttle him instead."

They were all laughing gently when the far door to the interrogation room opened and a handcuffed and tired-looking Mike Stone, wearing his prison grays and a slight stubble, was escorted into the room.

His eyes quickly took in the scene, snapping to the one-way mirror before meeting those of O'Brien first, then Fowler. O'Brien remained seated but Fowler stood. "Mike," the PBA lawyer said with a nod, taking the older man's elbow and guiding him to the chair to sit before doing so himself. The guard stepped back out into the corridor and shut the door.

O'Brien looked up from the pad in front of him and nodded with a slight smile. "Mike."

Swallowing and licking his lips, his eyes wary and his face expressionless, Mike nodded back. "Gerry. What's this all about?"

The ADA smiled enigmatically. "We'll get to that. How are you doing?"

Mike glanced quickly at Fowler then back to O'Brien. "I'm okay," he said hesitantly, still trying to figure out what was going on.

# # # # #

On the other side of the glass, Steve's eyes were riveted on his former partner. Mike actually looked pretty good, he thought, better than he'd expected. But there was a wariness and trepidation in the older man's eyes that he found disturbing.

Beside him, he knew everyone else was staring at Mike too. Other than Dan, none of his former colleagues had seen the disgraced lieutenant since he'd been escorted out of the courtroom after the sentencing hearing, almost four months ago.

He heard Healey inhale loudly and knew the Robbery lieutenant was apprehensive about the task at hand. There was a lot riding on what would transpire in that small room in the next few hours.

# # # # #

O'Brien continued to scan the papers in front of him and make notes, seemingly in no hurry to begin what Mike suspected to be another round of questions concerning the reason for his incarceration.

Fowler was doing the same.

Mike's eyes travelled from one attorney to the other. He knew the tactic was being used to make him impatient and uncomfortable; god knows, he had used it himself. But being on the receiving end of it was a lot different than being the one employing it. It was working.

Almost unable to control himself, he cleared his throat as he stared at the top of O'Brien's head. The ADA glanced up and smiled non-committally, then returned to his notetaking.

Realizing he was playing into O'Brien's game, Mike sat back in the hard metal chair a little more and turned his attention to the mirror. He figured Steve was behind it, and probably Dan; maybe Devitt or Olsen and a few others.

Finally, O'Brien put his pen down and looked up. "So, Mike, I guess you're wondering why we've brought you back here?" he began genially.

The older man's brow furrowed and he nodded slowly. "The question did cross my mind once or twice," he answered facetiously and the attorney laughed.

"I bet it did. Well, it seems we've come into possession of a lot of new information regarding the circumstances surrounding the death of Leonard Cord."

If anyone was expecting a reaction from the former Homicide lieutenant, they were sorely disappointed. Mike didn't move and his faraway expression didn't change. "Oh?" he responded flatly, "what 'new information' would that be?"

O'Brien smiled cheerlessly as he stacked the papers that were spread out before him. "Oh, we'll get to that in time. There's a lot to go over, believe me." He flipped the pages of the notepad back into place then looked up again. "Oh, um, I was told they drove through the night to get you here. So I'm assuming you haven't had anything to eat. Would you like some coffee and a, I don't know, a Danish or something?"

Frowning slightly, Mike glanced at Fowler, who was smiling at him benevolently, then back to O'Brien. "Yeah," he said softly and slowly, "yeah, that'd be great."

O'Brien lifted his head, turning slightly towards the mirror behind him and said loudly, "Did you guys get that?"

Haseejian leaned forward and rapped twice on the glass. O'Brien's eyes travelled back to Mike, who had glanced at the mirror when he heard the knocking. "Someone'll get that for you."

In the anteroom, Dan looked at the others and chuckled. "I know what he likes, I'll get one of the unies to go get it." He stepped out of the room into the corridor.

O'Brien's eyes flicked down to the pad and back up. "So, Mike, like I said, we have a lot of ground to cover today, so we best get started, okay? Is that all right with you, Jack?" His eyes refocused on the PBA lawyer, who was observing everything with a slight, bemused smile.

"Ah, yeah, that's good for me, Gerry."

O'Brien smiled again. "So, ah, because of the sheer volume of new material we have here, I'm going to ask that two of the officers who helped compile all this," he picked up the stack of papers to emphasize his point, "to join us and, ah, start the, ah… well, the presentation." He turned his head slightly towards the mirror again and raised his voice. "Gentlemen!"

Healey looked at Steve and winked as he turned the knob and opened the door, leading Haseejian into the room and closing the door behind him. Mike was staring at them both, expressionless, but they could see the wariness in his blue eyes as they settled into the two chairs on either side of O'Brien.

Healey smiled. "Hi, Mike, it's good to see you."

Haseejian grinned as he settled into the chair. "How ya doin, boss?" His tone was warm, and he couldn't resist using the moniker he'd sometimes used when they worked Homicide together.

Mike was unable to hold back the warm half-smile that curled his lips. "I'm doing fine, fellas," he answered quietly. He was suddenly very nervous and hoped it didn't show; he knew how good they were.

O'Brien turned to Healey. "Dan, if you'd like to start."

The sergeant glanced at the ADA and nodded with a slight smile. "All right." He looked across the table at his former superior officer again. "Mike, as you might or might not know, a bunch of us have been looking into the circumstances surrounding the murder of Leonard Cord on Sunday, the 23rd of September. Ah, there were a lot of unanswered questions that we felt needed to be answered." He paused and cleared his throat slightly. "We now believe we do have answers to those questions."

Mike's expression didn't change but he sat very still.

Healey took the stack of papers from in front of O'Brien and his eyes raked the top page. "Let's start at the beginning." He glanced up at Mike and said evenly, "By the way everything I'm about to tell you has been confirmed. There's absolutely no doubt and we have irrefutable proof for everything."

"So, the first thing we uncovered was your use of Martin Henry, the former SFPD officer now San Quentin guard, whom you've been 'paying' over the years to let you know if Leonard Cord's status at Q changed.

"And we have Zelda, whose last name is either Reuben or Rubenstein – even she can't remember," he added with a chuckle, glancing at the two attorneys, who smiled, "who you paid to follow Cord when he was prematurely released to keep an eye on him." He looked into Mike's intense blue eyes. "We're, ah, we're thinking that maybe you thought he might go after Jeannie again… or after you… we can all understand that…"

Mike blinked quickly several times and inhaled deeply but didn't say anything.

Healey turned his head slightly. "Norm," he said, sliding the stack of papers across the table towards the Armenian sergeant, who picked them up, cleared his throat and leaned forward.

"Before we get to the details of what happened on that Sunday night, Mike, we think we should tell you what we were able to find out about Gordon Mercer." He paused.

Every eye in both rooms was on the former Homicide lieutenant, every breath was held. As hard as he tried not to react to the name, despite his many years of being able to hide his feelings behind a professional detachment, Mike's eyes widened slightly and he swallowed involuntarily. Healey and Haseejian didn't move, but in the anteroom, Steve, Dan, Lessing and Tanner, who had all caught the subtle reaction, turned to each other and grinned.

Steve dropped his head into his hands and exhaled loudly; he felt Dan slap him on the back. The blood was pounding in his ears so loudly that he could barely hear what Haseejian said next.


	40. Chapter 40

"Gordon Mercer," Haseejian began, reading from the notes on the page he held in his right hand, "born January 25, 1931 in Baltimore, married Eleanor Page in 1950, father of three, Paul, Valerie and Karen. Accountant. Moved to San Francisco in '65 to accept a position with the firm of Truman, Belknap C.P.A. Divorced in 1971, moved to Hagerstown, Maryland. Currently employed as an accountant with Spencer Finegold." He glanced up; Mike was staring straight ahead, eerily still.

Haseejian lightly cleared his throat, looking at the paper again. "His eldest daughter, Valerie, was murdered by Leonard Cord in 1973, stabbed to death on a bus from Arizona to San Francisco, as I'm sure you are already aware," he continued, directing the last comment at the handcuffed prisoner directly. "I believe you and Mr. Mercer engaged in conversation at the funeral, which would be the first time your paths crossed."

He placed the sheet of paper down on the edge of the table and picked up another one. His eyes lingering on the unresponsive man opposite, he suppressed a sigh as his focus dropped to the report in his hand and began to read again.

Mike could feel Healey's eyes boring into him from across the table; he knew the eyes behind the glass were doing the same. "Gordon Mercer, it's now known, also had an…informant in San Quentin. In the interests of confidentiality, that person's identity is known only to the investigators, the attorneys involved and the presiding judge, and will remain that way. Mercer, like you, was notified of Leonard Cord's impending release.

"Unbeknownst to anyone else at the time, Mercer had used the services of a counterfeiter in Washington, D.C. to procure I.D.'s and other documents necessary to travel under a false identity – that of Allan Fitzgerald. His own middle name and his mother's maiden name. Using the name Allan Fitzgerald, Gordon Mercer travelled back and forth from Washington to San Francisco several times – to locate and secure the services of his San Quentin informant, seek out a…" the Armenian sergeant shrugged, trying to come up with the correct term, "… a San Franciscan of no fixed address," everyone smiled except Mike, "and to rent an apartment." He turned the report around and placed it on the table in between Mike and Fowler. Only the attorney glanced down at it.

Healey leaned forward and stared at Mike with a slight smile. "Which brings us to Charlie Albertson."

Mike blinked, his eyes staying closed for a slight beat longer than normal. If he didn't have such a firm grip on his emotions, he might have sighed in resignation. He could feel his chest tightening.

In the anteroom, Lee Lessing turned to the others. "That's my cue," he said brightly as he opened the door and stepped into the interrogation room. He could feel Mike's eyes on him as he picked up one of the empty chairs that was lining the wall beneath the mirror and brought it closer to the table. Nodding at his former commanding officer as he sat, he took the top sheet from the pile near Haseejian's elbow and started to scan the page.

"Charlie Albertson has been living on the streets of this city for a long time, and he's one of our more stable transients, but I think you're aware of that already. We know he knows you, Mike, that's for sure," Lessing said conversationally, glancing up at the still unresponsive prisoner on the other side of the table. "Mercer chose well. He rented a one-bedroom apartment over on Treat and invited Charlie to stay there, free of charge, and Charlie would be paid a hundred dollars a month, if he would do one thing for him. And that was, if and when Mercer was to call, Charlie would do exactly what he was instructed to do with no questions asked. He had been assured what he would be asked to do would in no way endanger his life or break the law. Charlie agreed.

"So when Mercer got word that Cord was getting out on an error and a technicality, he put his plan in motion. He contacted Charlie, who was instructed to meet the prison bus bringing Cord to The City." Lessing paused, and looked up at his former boss. "Which is exactly what you asked Zelda to do, wasn't it?"

He wasn't expecting a reply and he didn't get one. Mike continued to stare straight ahead, even though each revelation was one more straw.

"That done, Mercer himself flew out here, as Allan Fitzgerald, and met up with Charlie, who told him Cord was holed up in a flop off Market. Charlie's job was done and Mercer 'rewarded' him with a $10,000 'bonus' – Charlie was to get lost, leave town, enjoy himself somewhere else, so to speak." Lessing looked up and smiled. "And that's what Charlie did; he went to L.A."

Lessing paused momentarily, doing as Haseejian had done: he turned the report around and placed it on the opposite side of the table, picking up another one from the pile. "In the meantime, Mercer paid Cord a visit at the flop, and somehow persuaded him to get into Mercer's rental car. We're pretty sure he used a gun, but so far we've been unable to track down anyone who can tell us if Mercer had one or where he might've gotten it." He looked up at Mike and smiled. "We're hoping you can help us with that one."

Once more Mike's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a tell only the detectives picked up on. In the anteroom, Steve caught his breath and looked at Dan, who grinned back at him.

"This was Sunday night. Mercer might have gotten away with it; after all, nobody cared what happened to Cord, right? Except good ol' Zelda was still doing what you were paying her to do, wasn't she, Mike? She was following Cord too. She's good, you know… she's really good. She not only followed Cord but she'd followed Charlie as well and neither of them caught her…"

Lessing chuckled slightly and shook his head, impressed. "She followed Mercer and Cord to Pier 5, then she found a phone booth and called you. She waited around till you got there, you gave her $20 and she blended back into the night."

He looked up at Mike sympathetically. "She didn't betray you, Mike, if that's what you're thinking. She respects you a lot. She had no idea what happened that night after she left you at the pier. She didn't find out until she heard a couple of our guys talking about it a few weeks ago."

The door from the anteroom opened again and Dan Robbins walked into the interrogation room. Mike's eyes had snapped up when the doorknob was turned and he stared straight into his partner's eyes. Dan swallowed heavily, frozen to the spot for several seconds before he too picked up a chair, brought it to the end of the table and sat, almost close enough to reach out and touch the older man.

Dan cleared his throat slightly. "I was down on the wharf waiting for the divers to retrieve a floater when she approached me. Out of the blue. She said she'd just heard what happened to you… and she felt awful about it. She knew it had something to do with that night at Pier 5, and she wanted to tell someone about it. She tracked me down because she knew I was your partner."

Mike was staring at him, his brow slightly furrowed, his eyes penetrating, his mouth open slightly as he was starting to breath a little heavier now.

"There are a lot of people who care about what happens to you, whether you want to believe that or not."

Mike inhaled deeply but otherwise didn't respond.

Glancing down, Dan continued, "She told me all about you seeking her out, asking her if she would do a job for you, tracking this guy who was getting off the bus from Quentin. You showed her a picture… a picture of Leonard Cord." Dan nodded at Lessing. "Like Lee said, she's good. For two days she followed not only Cord but Charlie too and neither of them was the wiser. Then she called you. You showed up at Pier 5 on that Sunday night around 10 o'clock, she said. And that's all she knows."

Healey shifted on the chair and leaned forward, glancing at Dan before he resumed the narrative. "So now we have Mercer, Cord and you all at Pier 5 at 10 o'clock on the Sunday night. And we know, when the first black-and-white arrived on the scene almost four hours later, that Leonard Cord had been beaten to death and you were standing over him, telling the patrolman that you had done it. So the big question for us became, what happened to Mercer?"

Once more the door to the anteroom opened and this time Inspector Bill Tanner entered the room. He chose to stand behind ADA O'Brien, his eyes on his former lieutenant. "At 7:23 the next morning, Allan Fitzgerald presented himself at the Emergency Room at St. Francis, complaining that a tire that he was changing on his rental car had fallen and possibly broken his right hand. They were having trouble that morning with a non-functioning x-ray machine and an overcrowded ER and so he just left, doing some triage on himself before boarding his flight back to Washington early that afternoon. Then, before driving home to Hagerstown, he stopped at his ex-wife's in Philadelphia."

Tanner smiled briefly. "Mrs. Mercer had told Steve that she hadn't seen her husband since their daughter Valerie's funeral and that he was a 'vile man' and she was glad he was out of their lives. That was a lie. Detectives in Philadelphia have confirmed that Mrs. Mercer has a very cordial relationship with her ex-husband, and he sees his other children regularly. He was spotted by neighbours in Philadelphia around the Mercer household in late September, sporting what looked to them like a white bandage or a cast on his right hand."

Tanner picked up a report and scanned it briefly. "Mercer eventually went to see his own doctor in Hagerstown, who confirmed that indeed he had broken two bones in his right hand, insisting it had been an accident changing a tire while on a weekend hike in the Blue Ridge mountains. But even Bernie confirmed that the same injuries could be sustained by punching something really hard, like someone's head." He set the paper on the opposite side of the table like the others had done.

Healey shifted again, and everyone's attention returned to the veteran detective. He leaned towards Mike and a knowing smile curled his lips. He glanced down at the papers now scattered across both sides of the table, and lightly tapped one of them.

"That's just some of what we've managed to dig up in the last few months and, like I said at the outset, everything we've told you so far has been confirmed. But we still have those four hours in the warehouse to account for."

Mike was staring at him expressionlessly but they all knew his mind was racing, trying to figure out if they did know what had taken place that night.

"So what we were faced with was one man deceased and two possible suspects – you and Gordon Mercer. Both of you had injuries to your right hands, injuries consistent with the landing of blows powerful enough to break bones. So the question for us became, did you both kill him or, like you admitted, it was just you? But, if it _was_ just you, how and why did Mercer break his hand?"

Healey grinned and sat back. "You taught us all well, Mike, you really did. You taught us not to stop until every possible angle was examined, every question was answered. It was your old partner who finally figured it out." He paused and sat back, still smiling.

Mike's eyes, which were boring into his face, snapped to the anteroom door when it opened and Steve walked into the room, followed by a short, rotund older man with sparkling blue eyes and a nervous air. Unable to stop himself, Mike stiffened in the chair and briefly closed his eyes.

Steve, who had been staring at his former partner, smiled as Haseejian got up and offered his chair to the new arrival. As the older man sat, Steve waited till Mike was looking at him again before he said with deceptive nonchalance, "Mike, I believe you know Mr. Mario Costaldo."


	41. Chapter 41

The old man looked at the three men opposite him, eyes wide, nervously gripping the edge of the metal table. He nodded slightly. "Hello, Michael." His voice trembled.

Mike Stone, whose own eyes had never left the butcher's face, swallowed heavily, a slight smile curling his lips, and he nodded back. "Mario." For the first time since all this started, his eyes sought and settled on O'Brien's.

When Costaldo started to speak again, the ADA put a hand lightly on his forearm. Confused, his brow furrowing, he closed his mouth and looked at the attorney beside him, whose eyes were locked on Mike's.

O'Brien leaned forward and quietly asked, "What do you want to do?" He watched as Mike shakily released a deeply held breath. With the instincts that made him the great Assistant District Attorney he was, O'Brien knew what questions to ask and when to ask them. He had read the former Homicide lieutenant perfectly.

"I'd like to talk to Steve and Dan alone, if that's all right," Mike replied softly, continuing to meet O'Brien's uncompromising stare.

Though everyone in the room, save for Mario Costaldo, knew that they had just won this battle of wills, no one reacted. But every heart was pounding and every palm was wet.

Steve's throat tightened and he felt the sting of tears in his eyes but he didn't move.

O'Brien nodded gently and a slight smile played over his lips. "We can arrange that," he said quietly and, as he began to stand, the others did as well.

Jack Fowler touched Mike's arm and the older man looked up. "You sure you want to be alone?" he asked quietly and, when Mike nodded, he did as well. "Okay, but if you need me, I'll be in the other room."

"Thanks," Mike said softly, then turned to O'Brien again. "I want the sound shut off as well," he said, nodding towards the mirror, and everyone knew he meant the speaker system linking the two rooms.

"Of course."

Haseejian had opened the anteroom door and begun the egress, Lessing and Tanner right behind him. Healey waited until Mario Costaldo got back to his feet and escorted him to the door; Fowler, with one last look back at his client, preceded O'Brien out of the room, shutting the door behind them.

Steve, who had stayed standing, took O'Brien's vacated chair, directly opposite his old partner. Mike's eyes had dropped to his lap while the room emptied; he looked up and met the green eyes evenly, if a little guiltily.

Steve waited; it was up to Mike to make the first move, he knew. The blue eyes flashed briefly towards Dan, who was still in the chair at the end of the table, then back, and they softened. With a brief, uneasy chuckle, he hung his head and sighed. "I knew when I told you to 'prove it' that I was in trouble."

Steve stared at his downturned head then said gently, "Did you actually think I was going to let you rot in there, when I knew you hadn't done it?"

Mike's head came up sharply, the anger in his eyes quickly turning to reluctant amusement. "I wasn't _rotting_ ," he said sarcastically, "I was actually starting to blossom." His slight smile was contagious, and both Steve and Dan grinned.

The three enjoyed the brief companionable moment, but when Mike raised his hands to place them on the table, the loud clanking of the handcuffs against the metal was a chilling reminder of why they were there.

"So what do you have to tell us…" Steve prompted softly, "…that you think we don't already know?"

Mike swallowed a smile, glancing at Dan again, who was staring at him expectantly with raised eyebrows.

"Well, from Mario's presence I am assuming… and correct me if I'm wrong… you figured out how I broke my hand."

"The butcher shop? Of course," Steve smiled dismissively. "I have to admit, though, that was a good one. That took a lot of work."

Mike's brow had furrowed. "How _did_ you figure it out?"

Steve glanced at Dan and grinned. "Well, you can thank your daughter for that."

"Jeannie?"

"Umh-humh. The day after Christmas she was forcing Dan and I to go to a movie with her. She asked when was the last time I'd been to see a movie and I told her it was when I went to 'Rocky Two' with you. I remembered that several years ago we went to see the first one together as well, and for some reason I suddenly remembered that scene in the meat locker, when Rocky was sparring with the frozen beef carcass. I remembered we talked about that scene after the movie… It just hit me… and I knew that's what you did."

Mike had been staring at him, intrigued; now he just closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "I never knew I was that easy to read…"

Both Steve and Dan chuckled warmly. "You're not, believe me," Dan said, then nodded towards Steve, "he just has more sensitive radar, especially when it comes to you."

Mike looked at Steve and they both shifted uncomfortably. A easy silence blanketed the table for several long seconds before Steve subtly cleared his throat. "What really happened that night?"

Mike stared at him then sat back, allowing his cuffed hands to drop back onto his lap. "Cord was already dead when I got there. He was lying on the floor in the center of the warehouse, his head covered in blood… even I barely recognized him…" He inhaled deeply. "Mercer was sitting against a wall, cradling his broken hand and looking shell-shocked. He could barely talk but I knew what had happened."

He glanced at them both. "You were right about the gun; he _did_ have one. I don't know where he got it from. And I'm sure that's how he got Cord down to the wharf without him putting up a fight." He dropped his head, reliving that night, and the pause lengthened. Eventually he looked up again. "Neither of you knew it, but I've talked to Mercer a few times over the years. He fell apart when his daughter was killed… it gutted him. He never recovered. He'd become obsessed.

"When I heard that Cord was getting out because of that… stupid bastard in the CDOJ, my first thought was for Mercer. I somehow knew that he would try to find Cord and kill him."

"And that's why you hired Zelda?"

Mike looked at Dan and nodded. "Well, that was one of the reasons. I didn't expect her to lead me to Mercer's eyes and ears, I just wanted her to keep an eye on Cord while he was in The City. When she told me about Charlie, I just knew in my bones that Mercer had to be involved in it somehow." He paused and sighed deeply. "I just wish I could have gotten there sooner, stopped Mercer from doing what he did."

Both younger men nodded in understanding, then Dan asked tentatively, "But why did you decide to take the rap for it? Why did you let Mercer go?"

Mike's eyes slid slowly from Dan's down to the table. It seemed like an eternity before he spoke again. "Daniel, there are some things in life that you just can't explain. This was one of those times. His daughter's murder had ruined his life and he was a deeply hurt, extremely troubled man… And I felt in many ways responsible for that. His daughter was murdered by a man who was trying to get to me, to make me think he was after Jeannie, to get me scared and angry enough to make a mistake in judgment so that he could make me pay for ruining his own life."

He looked at Steve sadly. "He almost succeeded, Steve, you know that. If you hadn't been there, talking sense to me – even though I wouldn't listen – things could've turned out a whole lot differently. But while we were able to stop him eventually, an innocent young girl died needlessly because of me…"

When Steve and Dan started to object, Mike silenced them both with a withering stare. "I'm not rewriting the past… that is exactly what happened and why…"

Dan looked down with a soft sigh; Steve continued to meet the older man's eyes evenly, not agreeing but not verbalizing his dissension.

"Anyway," Mike continued, "when I got there and found Cord already dead and Mercer an emotional wreck, I knew what I had to do. After all he'd been through already, I couldn't be the one to put him in prison for doing us all a favour and putting an end to a piece of scum like Cord once and for all."

"And that's when you thought of the 'Rocky' thing?" Steve asked, surprised and impressed.

"Well ah, it didn't come to me right away. I had to pull Mercer together first, get him to think straight. His right hand was badly banged up; I was pretty sure it was broken." He shook his head and shuddered slightly. "He did a hell of a job on Cord, that's for sure… I knew if I was going to confess to the murder, I had to make it look like I'd done it. I thought first of just hitting a wall, but I knew it wouldn't give me the same injuries that Mercer had. I knew I had to recreate the beating as closely as possible – there were going to be too many experts to fool."

He looked at Steve and his eyebrows arched. "That's when I thought of 'Rocky'. And I started trying to remember all the butcher shops that had freezers and who I could get in touch with at that hour. I remembered Mario but I had other things to do first. I had to get Mercer out of there and I had to get rid of the gun." He looked at Dan. "I threw it into the Bay off the end of the pier, in case you want to look for it."

"Why did you think you needed to punch a side of beef?" Dan asked, frowning. "Why didn't you just go to a gym and hit a punching bag barehanded?"

Mike smiled slightly with a gentle chuckle. "You know, I did think of that, Daniel, and it would've made my night a helluva lot easier, but I also knew I needed to hit whatever I was going to hit until I drew blood and possibly broke a bone, and I didn't want to leave blood on a punching bag that could be discovered and analyzed."

Dan nodded with a facial shrug, impressed by the cogent argument.

"But how did you get into the freezer at that hour?" Steve asked and Mike turned to him with a smile.

"I know where Mario lives. I had to go to his house once. Helen had ordered a special standing rib roast from him once for a dinner party we were holding and I got caught up with a case and forgot to pick it up. She sent me to his house to get him to come back to the shop and open up so I could get it. I never forgot where he lived." He laughed softly at the memory and both younger men chuckled.

Mike sobered and continued, "I pounded on the door and rang the bell till I woke he and Sylvia up, and I told him I needed him to come with me, it was an emergency, and I explained a few things on the way. I didn't tell him everything, of course, I didn't tell him about the murder. I just told him I needed a very big favour, and I needed his discretion." He looked at them both a little sheepishly. "I paid him for the carcass. A hundred bucks."

Steve's brow furrowed. "You don't carry that much money on you. Where did you get it?"

Mike smiled warmly; 'always the cop', he thought proudly. He nodded. "You're right, I didn't. But Mercer did. He had a hundred and fifty on him. I told him I needed the hundred to keep him out of trouble and he gave it to me. And I gave it to Mario. He didn't want to take it but I insisted; it was the least I could do."

Steve grinned and looked down.

"What?" Mike asked.

"Mario told me about that. Do you know what he did with that carcass?"

Mike shook his head, frowning. "No. What?"

"He carved it up and gave it to St. Anthony's soup kitchen in your name."

Mike caught his breath and closed his eyes; his throat constricted and hot tears slid out from under his lids and trickled down his cheeks.


	42. Chapter 42

Steve and Dan watched in sympathetic silence as Mike pulled himself together; the news of Mario Costaldo's largesse, in his name, had hit a nerve that none of them were expecting. The older man lifted his manacled hands and brushed at his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

There was a knock on the door to the hallway. Glancing with a frown at Steve, Dan got up and opened the door, stepping quickly into the corridor and pulling the door to behind him.

Steve looked at Mike. "You okay?" he asked gently and the older man nodded. The entire experience was taking a toll on them all.

The door opened again and a grinning Dan Robbins stepped back into the room, a cardboard cup of coffee in one hand and medium-sized paper bag in the other. "Breakfast finally arrived!" he announced with a chuckle as he closed the door with his foot.

Steve frowned in amusement. "Where did you send them? Seattle?"

"Hey, it was only a small road trip." He put the bag on the table and the cup near Mike, who was looking at him curiously. He reached into the bag and took out a couple of napkins, a plastic fork and spoon, four small packets of crackers and a bottle of Tabasco sauce. Mike, watching closely, glanced at Steve, who shook his head and shrugged. Still grinning, Dan removed a small white Styrofoam tub and placed it in front of his partner.

Starting to smile, Mike looked from the tub to Dan and back again. Keeping the chain of the handcuffs out of the way, he took the lid off the container and smiled, dropping his head momentarily with a happy snort. "Thank you, Daniel," he said through a chuckle.

Steve's eyes slid from the contents of the tub to Dan's face. "Pop's?"

Dan shrugged and laughed. "Where else? I knew you hadn't had it for awhile, Mike, and I thought you could use it this morning. _That's_ why it took so long," Dan said to Steve, emphasizing his words with raised eyebrows.

Chuckling, Mike picked up one of the cracker packets and snapped it open, crumbling the saltines before dumping them on the chili.

"You want us to see if they can take those off?" Steve gestured towards the handcuffs with his chin.

Still working on preparing his breakfast, Mike shook his head. "It's okay, I've gotten used to them. Besides, we don't want to subvert protocol, do we?" His brief smile was ironic. Finished with the crackers, he opened the bottle of Tabasco and shook several drops into the tub.

Steve inclined his head in distaste, scowling. "I still don't know how you can eat that for breakfast, and especially with hot sauce all over it."

With an enigmatic yet somehow self-satisfied smile, Mike picked up the spoon and took his first taste. Swallowing, he glanced up at his partner, who was still hovering. "Thank you very much, Daniel."

Laughing, Dan sat back down. "You're very welcome."

After several mouthsful, Mike looked up at them both. "So, ah, what else do you need to know?"

Steve stared at him for several long seconds. "What happened to Mercer?"

Mike half-shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "Well, when I finally got him together, he just walked out of the building. I really don't know where he went; I had my own problems at the time. From what I was just told though, he eventually took himself to St. Francis, right?"

Steve nodded. He glanced at Dan, then looked down at the table and started to stack some of the reports that were still scattered about. He waited a few long beats, allowing Mike to eat more of the chili before he asked simply, "Why?"

Mike froze, the spoon halfway to his mouth, then turned slowly in his former partners direction. "Why what?" he asked.

Steve stared at him a little harder. "Why did you do it? What made you take the rap and actually decide to go to prison? I don't understand…"

Staring straight ahead, Mike very deliberately put the spoon down and sat back. He picked up one of the napkins and wiped his mouth, putting it back on the table before he looked at the younger man again.

He inhaled deeply and an intriguing calmness seemed to settle over him. "To be perfectly honest, I never thought much about all that when I was… in the moment, I guess you could call it. I just knew I didn't want Mercer to suffer any more than he already had, and that I was the only one who could do something about it.

"And I guess a part of me was thinking, I know Gerry… I know how he felt about Cord after the Valerie Mercer killing. And I guess I was thinking… and hoping… that if I pled guilty, I could count on him to cut me a deal, give me the lightest sentence he could…" Mike shrugged with a small, self-deprecating smile. "And he did…"

"You took a big chance," Dan ventured softly and Mike's eyes turned towards him.

"Yes, I did, Daniel, but at the time I felt it was the only choice I had… and I still do."

Steve glanced quickly at Dan, suddenly more than a little concerned. "You do know you're going to have to tell all this to Gerry… and a judge, right?"

Mike stared at him expressionlessly for so long that the younger man almost began to squirm. "What makes you think I want to change my situation?" he asked finally.

Startled, Steve and Dan exchanged nervous looks. "What do you mean?" the professor asked quietly.

"Exactly what I said," Mike replied matter-of-factly, "why do you automatically assume I want to change my plea?"

Steve sat up a little straighter and cocked his head. "Why would you want to go back to prison? We have enough here," he indicated the papers on the table, "to have Mercer arrested, if not for murder then at least for conspiracy to commit. We can put him with you in the warehouse that night, and the injuries to his hand are a little more than just circumstantial. So, what? You both go to prison for the same crime, even though only one of you did it?"

Steve was warming to the subject and his voice took on a hard edge. "So what does that prove? That you lived up to your word at the expense of your family, your friends… and even yourself." He paused and took a deep breath. "You've already lost your job, your pension and your reputation… and you were almost killed in there. Dan and I know you didn't do it… those guys in the other room know you didn't do it… Don't you think it's time you told your daughter you didn't do it? Don't you at least owe her that much?"

They stared at each other defiantly, but Steve knew he had hit a nerve. He waited. It was Mike who blinked first, the stiff posture slumping ever so slightly.

Dan, who had been watching them both like a chair umpire at a tennis match, closed his eyes, trying to suppress the gasp of relief that rose in his throat.

"Do you have Mercer in custody?" Mike asked flatly.

Steve shook his head. "Not yet. As far as I'm aware, he doesn't even know we're onto him. But I make one phone call and all that'll change. Gerry's already issued a warrant for arrest and another for extradition. We could have him here in a couple of days."

Mike dropped his head and took several deep breaths. When he eventually looked up he said to Dan, "I want to speak to Gerry… alone."

Dan nodded and stood, stepping quickly to the anteroom door, opening it and disappearing into the other room. Mike looked at Steve and raised his eyebrows but said nothing. The younger man got slowly to his feet, not breaking the uncompromising stare, not backing down an inch. If Mike wanted to go back to Tehachapi and finish out his sentence, he was going to have a fight on his hands.

Gerry O'Brien stepped into the room, glancing back and forth between the two former partners, very aware of the tension crackling in the small, suddenly claustrophobic space.

As Steve took a step back towards the door, he tore his eyes from the older man's intense blue-eyed stare and nodded at the Assistant District Attorney. Nodding in return, O'Brien sat in the chair he had occupied earlier as he heard the door close behind him. Neither man said a word as Mike pushed the almost empty tub of chili to the end of the table then took the lid off the cup of coffee and took a sip.

O'Brien took the time to straighten out several of the reports that covered the table, stacking them. Without looking up, he said nonchalantly, "The guys did a helluva job here, don't you think?" He glanced up and gave Mike a quick smile, continuing to collect the papers. "They pretty well have Mercer dead to rights, I think. They gave me enough to issue a warrant that I even got Judge McAfee to sign – and you know how big a stickler he is for that kinda thing, right?" He looked up and flashed another brief smile.

Finished stacking the papers and shuffling them into a tight pile, he put them down with an intense deliberateness then raised his eyes to look directly into Mike's. "So where does that leave you?" When there was no response, he leaned back in the chair and sighed slightly, maintaining the intimidating eye contact. "I know you didn't do it. Hell, everybody knows you didn't do it. What's it going to take to get you to finally admit that?"

After several long immobile seconds, the older man looked down; the younger man's heart soared but there was no joy in the victory. He leaned forward slightly, hoping to close the gap between them in every way. "What can I do to help?" he asked gently.

Mike cleared his throat, continuing to look down. "I know it seems like it was pre-meditated… and I guess in many ways it was… but, as far as I'm concerned, it was a crime of passion." His eyes rose and he stared sadly at the attorney. "I'll tell you everything I know about what happened that night but I need something from you in return."

O'Brien nodded once. "I can't make any promises, you now that," he replied kindly, "but I'll do my best."

"That's good enough for me…" Mike looked down and exhaled loudly. "I want you to offer Gordon Mercer the same deal you offered me – three years in medium security. As far as I'm concerned, he's been in a prison of his own making ever since his daughter was murdered… and at some point this all has to end…"

O'Brien nodded soberly. "I'll see what I can do."

Mike was bobbing his head, staring at the table, his gaze unfocused. "Thank you," he said softly.

The ADA pulled the legal notepad closer, flipped it open to a clean page and picked up one of the pens. "So, you said you can tell me what happened that night…?"

Taking a deep breath, Mike lifted his head. "Yeah, I can do that…" he began quietly.

"Listen, before you start, do you want me to get Jack back in here?"

Mike shook his head with a small grateful smile. "No, thanks, Gerry. I can do this on my own. I know what you want to hear."

# # # # #

Over an hour later, O'Brien stood, picking up the pad. Through the two-way mirror, the others watched as the armed guard entered through the far door, waited as Mike got to his feet and escorted him into the corridor and out of sight. The ADA came back into the anteroom.

"So?" Steve asked almost impatiently. "Did he tell you everything?"

O'Brien smiled enigmatically. "Well, he told me enough that I now know my warrants are justified."

"So what happens now?" Healey asked.

"Well, now, Jack and I'll start the paperwork to get Mike's conviction reversed and get him home. But don't get too excited," he continued quickly to everyone in the room, "it's always a lot faster to put someone behind bars than it is to get them out. And he still could face charges of accessory after the fact; I'm gonna have to talk to Judge Young about that and get the charges waived. Hopefully we can get him out in a week or so but it might take a while longer, so just… you know, be prepared."

There were nods and grudging affirmations all around.

"Well, is there anything we can do to help?" Steve asked, then shook his head and chuckled. "I mean, you know, um," he pointed vaguely at the others, "something _they_ can do, you know, the real cops here…"

Everybody laughed. O'Brien pretended to look askance. "What, you're not a cop anymore? You coulda fooled me."

"Yeah, right," Steve sighed sarcastically, "I get your point."

"Actually," O'Brien continued, turning serious, "there is something you can do. You can make that call back east."

Steve froze momentarily and his eyes widened. He grinned. "With pleasure."


	43. Chapter 43

" _Homicide, Detective Rogers."_

"Stan, it's Steve. How are you doing?"

" _Hey, great to hear from you! We're doin' fantastic at this end. How about you?"_

"Better than ever, Stan, better than ever. Hey, ah, belated Merry Christmas there, hunh?"

A deep chuckle. _"You too, kiddo, you too. So, ah, am I to assume from the timing of this call that you are about to formally ask me to do what I have been itching to do for a long time now?"_

"Ah… okay… if I follow that correctly… and translate that to mean, is this the call to tell you we're ready to pick up Gordon Mercer… then, yeah, you're right."

" _Excellent! I'll warm up my handcuffs!"_

"Well, ah, before you do that, can you wait till Mike's partner and I get out there. We have the warrants for arrest and extradition and, you know, there's that little thing about running it past a judge in your jurisdiction and all that kinda stuff… you know, that pesky little 'by the book' thing."

" _Oh yeah, hunh, that little thing. Well, okay, when are you guys coming out here?"_

"We're catching the first flight tomorrow, I'm hoping. Perfect timing, I know, what with New Year's Eve the day after but we want to get this moving, you know. Sooner we get Mercer back here, sooner we can spring my old partner."

" _What, he confessed that he didn't do it?!"_

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say he… confessed. Let's just say we got enough on him and Mercer that he could no longer plausibly deny it, if you catch my drift. He wasn't too happy about it, but hey, I can play dirty too."

" _I bet you can. Say, listen, we're gonna have to bring Drabinsky and his partner in on this, of course, 'cause, you know, I don't have any jurisdiction at all over there in Maryland, right? So let me call him right now and we'll get the ball rolling here and you can call me back when you've made your plane reservations and we'll take it from there. How does that sound?"_

"Sounds perfect, Stan. Really appreciate this. Okay, so, as soon as I find out when Dan and I can get there, hopefully tomorrow, I'll call you back."

# # # # #

Mike was sitting sideways on the bunk in the small holding cell, his back against the wall, his left hand on the baseball glove tied around the ball on the bed beside him. He knew this was going to be his home for however long it took O'Brien to get him released.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Part of him was angry that his fate was no longer in his own hands; that an inadvertent slip of the tongue, a moment of hubris had set in motion the actions that had brought him back to San Francisco so soon.

Try as he might over the years, he couldn't actually put himself in Gordon Mercer's shoes. He hadn't lost a daughter, he hadn't lost Jeannie. He could try to imagine what the parent of a murdered child would go through but he would never really know. He would be forever grateful for that, but the realization also came with more than its fair share of guilt.

He rested the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes, tightening his fingers slightly around the glove; for reasons he didn't completely understand, it was giving him strength and comfort right now. He was tired, more in spirit than body. Though he knew he could have physically survived three years in Tehachapi, he was less convinced his psyche and his soul would have fared as well. The separation from everything he held dear, everything he knew and cherished, was already beginning to take its toll.

And if he was going to be completely honest with himself, as much as he protested, he was grateful that Steve and Dan and the others had refused to believe he had so wantonly taken a life. It just wasn't who he was.

Though he'd had plenty of time to think about things in prison, he'd never questioned what he was doing. That night in the warehouse he had made a pact with himself that no matter how tough it got, he would never renege on what he was about to do. That, too, was who he was.

But now, back in the city he loved so much, surrounded by friends and colleagues who obviously valued him enough to have spent countless hours trying to clear his name and bring him home, he began to question the last few months.

Almost unconsciously, he brought his left hand up to cover the now completely healed wound in his chest. And once again he realized how incredibly lucky he had been that day.

He heard the heavy metal door down the corridor open and three sets of footfalls started in his direction. He could easily make out the heavy thud of the guard's gum-soled shoes; he had heard that sound so often in prison that he could differentiate the guards just by their walks.

The other two sets of footsteps he didn't recognize though, and he waited, eyes on the hallway through the bars. The guard came into view, the keys on his ring clinking as he found the right one and put it in the lock. "You got visitors," he announced matter-of-factly. Swinging the steel bars open, he took a step back as Dan and Jeannie appeared at the entrance.

# # # # #

Steve hung up the phone, still jotting down notes. He heard the man on the other side of the desk pointedly clear his throat and looked up into the bemused eyes of Captain Roy Devitt.

"I know you're used to using this office, but my pad, my pen, my phone…" the older man grumbled good-naturedly, gesturing at the items he was listing.

"Sorry, Roy, old habits die hard sometimes, don't they?" Steve laughed as he tore the top sheet off the pad, folded it and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

"You can say that again. Hey," Devitt said sharply and Steve looked at him, "is it true that Mike finally admitted he didn't kill Cord, that this Mercer guy did it?"

Steve smiled and nodded. "Yeah, he finally did." He pointed at the phone. "That's what that was all about – Dan and I are flying to Baltimore tomorrow with an arrest warrant and an extradition warrant."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." Devitt looked at him from under a very furrowed brow. His eyes snapped around the small room quickly and he lowered his head and his voice conspiratorially. "I hate to break this to you, Steve, but you're not a cop anymore."

It took a second for the younger man to realize he was joking. "Yeah, Roy, I know that… and that's why I'm bringing Dan with me. He and the Maryland and Philadelphia cops are going to do all the heavy lifting and I'm just going to be the very interested bystander."

Devitt stared at him skeptically. "Yeah, right, a bystander…. Wait a second, what's a Phillie cop have to do with all this? Mercer lives in Maryland, doesn't he?"

Steve nodded. "He does. But when I was checking out his wife first, I met up with a Phillie homicide cop who helped me out. The guy did really yeoman work for us on this and I think he should be in on the arrest, don't you?"

Devitt nodded slowly with a facial shrug.

"And besides, he's picking us up in Baltimore on his way through to Hagerstown, where Mercer lives." He finished with raised eyebrows as he stood and started for the door.

"Ay-yi-yi," Devitt muttered with a chuckle as he looked back down at the report on his desk, "you can take the man out of the cop but you can't take the cop out of the man…"

Laughing, Steve opened the door, then stopped and turned back. "Hey, Roy…"

"Yeah?" the captain looked up expectantly.

"Look, I know you're not an expert on this kinda thing, but… well, from what you know about what Mike did vis-à-vis Mercer and all that, and going on what Gerry said about getting him out and the conviction overturned… well, what do you think the chances are that Mike could be reinstated…? I mean, there's no perjury involved here because he didn't lie under oath, he just confessed outright. And they could charge him with accessory, but seeing as he's already served time… and the circumstances being what they are…." He sighed heavily. "Anyway, you know what I'm getting at…"

Devitt nodded sympathetically. "Yeah. Well, I don't know all the legal ramifications of all that, but I do know how the brass upstairs," he gestured towards the ceiling with his thumb, "feel about Mike. I'm sure there'd be a lot of hoops to jump through and a lot of backroom deals to make… but as far as I can tell, none of this was done for personal gain. Hell, other than Cord, Mike's come out of this the worst, hasn't he?" He sighed. "What I'm trying to say is, I don't know, Steve, but anything's possible, as you guys have just proved. And all we can do is keep our fingers crossed, right?"

Steve nodded gratefully. "Yeah… thanks, Roy." He stepped out of the office and began to close the door.

"Hey," Devitt's raised voice stopped him. "Why do you think I didn't take Mike's name off the door?" he asked rhetorically with a grin.

The knob still in his hand, Steve looked down at the black letters on the opaque glass, and he chuckled.

# # # # #

Father and daughter only had eyes for each other. Very slowly, Mike stood up. Jeannie stepped into the small room. Dan nodded at the guard and he closed the metal barred door as quietly as he could, then both men retreated back down the corridor.

Mike swallowed heavily. "Jeannie," he managed to whisper and opened his arms tentatively; for one of the few times in his life he was not sure how she was going to react.

Her face began to crumble and she rushed towards him and into his arms. "Daddy!"

Looking up, his eyes suddenly blinded with tears, he wrapped his arms around her and felt hers around him. He could feel her shudder as her hands clasped his shirt and she began to sob.

# # # # #

Dan strode into the Homicide office to find Steve sitting behind his desk, the phone to his ear and making notes on a yellow pad. He dropped down heavily onto the guest chair and waited.

"Yeah… yeah… that's perfect… Okay, yeah, see you then… Thanks, will do. Bye." Steve hung up, finished a notation and looked up. "So how did it go?"

Dan raised his eyebrows. "Well, when I discreetly backed my way out of there, they were just staring at each other. I didn't want to stay; this is something they have to work out on their own."

"Yeah, that's true." Steve was still looking down at his notes on the pad. "So how much did you tell her?"

"Broad strokes. I told her about Mercer and what Mike did that night, how he took the rap for Mercer. I know she was stunned, after all it was her girlfriend's father, but I couldn't tell anything else, like how mad she is, or disappointed, or whatever…"

Steve looked up and smiled. "Just like her father – sometimes I can read him like a book and other times he's downright Delphic. I can't tell what's going on…"

Dan chuckled. "Anyway, I told her to take as long as she needs, I'd wait here for her." He gestured towards the notepad. "So, what have you got?"

"Well, you and I are booked on the 10 a.m. flight to Baltimore tomorrow. My Phillie cop friend Stan is going to pick us up at the airport and take us to Hagerstown, where we'll meet up with another cop friend of mine and a judge and, hopefully, in a couple of days we'll be back here with Gordon Mercer and we can finally start to put this entire sorry episode behind us." He stared at Mike's partner and his smile was a combination of irony and resignation. "Happy New Year…"


	44. Chapter 44

"Sit down, sweetheart," Mike said softly, releasing his hold on his daughter and nodding towards the bunk.

Still holding onto his shirt with one hand, she stepped to the bed and sat, pulling him down beside her. They both leaned back against the wall and she wrapped both arms around his chest and leaned against his shoulder. He placed his right arm around her and held her close.

After several long seconds, he felt her head rise slightly. "Is that new?" she asked quietly and he realized she was talking about the baseball glove.

He smiled wistfully. "Umh-humh. Steve sent it to me for Christmas." He could feel her smile, and she tightened her hold on him.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, he with his eyes closed, she staring at the glove and all the implications it carried.

Eventually she began gently, "Daddy…?"

"Umh-humh…"

"Dan told me what you did… that you really didn't kill Cord… that Valerie's Dad did it and you covered up for him... " She could feel him take a deep breath. "Is that the truth…? Is that what you did?"

Staring straight ahead, he raised his right hand from her shoulder and stroked her hair. It was an affectionate gesture he had done all her life, and one she cherished. She buried her head a little deeper against his shoulder.

He inhaled deeply again. "Yes… that's what I did." He felt her fingers dig into his back and once again he wasn't sure if it was in sympathy, despair or anger… or all three. He waited, his hand resting lightly on her head.

She cleared her throat slightly, and he knew she was trying to keep her emotions under control. "You were willing to go to prison for three years… to lose your job, your pension… to separate yourself from Steve, from Dan… from me… because of what Valerie's dad did to Leonard Cord?" Her voice was low but strong and, though the question was hard to hear, he was strangely proud of her for having the courage to ask it.

He laid his cheek against the top of her head and sighed. "Yeah… I was… but it looks like I'm not even going to be able to do that now."

There was a tinge of regret in his tone that made her freeze. She pulled away from him and turned to look into his eyes. She didn't have to say anything; he could tell what she was thinking.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it was the only thing I could think of to do…" He closed his eyes and sighed with a heartbreaking melancholy that froze her heart. He opened his eyes slowly and stared at her. "You probably won't understand this… but I felt I owed Valerie's father so much…" He swallowed. "Cord killed her, a perfectly innocent young woman, just so he could torture me, try to make me lose my mind thinking he was going after you." He smiled mirthlessly and looked down. "He almost succeeded, sweetheart… he came very close, closer than I could've imagined… closer than he should have because I became obsessed with keeping you safe. Because I knew he wasn't bluffing… he'd already killed Valerie."

He pulled her close again, her head against his chest. "I couldn't live with the fact that a man had lost his daughter because of me… and when I found him that night in the warehouse on the pier, with the body of Leonard Cord… I knew I couldn't let him suffer anymore. And that if there was anything I could do about it, his torment would be… I don't know, lessened somewhat."

He held her a little tighter and she felt him chuckle gently. "I guess I just made a big mess of everything… and for everybody… Pretty stupid, hunh?"

She pulled away from him again, turning to sit facing him. He couldn't tell what she was thinking as she stared at him silently. Then she reached up with both hands, placed them on the sides of his head and pulled him towards her to plant a kiss on his lips. When she sat back, still holding him, her eyes were bright with tears but she was smiling and shaking her head. "No, not stupid… brave and selfless, like always."

# # # # #

Carrying flight bags and their winter coats over their arms, Steve and Dan exited the tunnel into the terminal, the professor's eyes scanning the waiting crowd looking for a familiar face. Dan touched his arm and pointed to their left. Steve threw his head back as he started to laugh. Stan Rogers was standing in the front row holding a hand-printed sign that read STEVEN KELLER AND COMPANY.

Shaking his head as he continued to laugh, he led Dan towards the large Philadelphia detective, who was pretending not to notice their approach, his eyes still on the exiting passengers.

Steve pointed at the sign. "That's very cute," he grinned through his laughter, "like I could miss you."

Rogers pretended to notice them. "Oh, there you are!" His jowly face broke into a huge grin and, sticking the sign under his arm, he thrust his right hand out and pulled Steve into a shake and a brief clinch. He turned towards Dan and pointed. "This must be the 'company'?"

Still chuckling, Steve made the introductions and Rogers shook Dan's hand with equal enthusiasm. "I bet you're gonna be glad to have your partner out of the slammer, hunh?"

Dan shook his head, chuckling. "You have no idea; it's been a hell of a stressful few months."

"I can imagine." Rogers turned back to Steve. "The car's just outside, parked in the yellow zone, of course," he laughed, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "You guys need to hit the head before we hit the road?"

Steve looked at Dan and they both shook their heads. "Nope, we're ready to go." The two Californians dropped their bags and started to put on their coats. "Your partner's not here?"

"Naw, we caught a DB in a downtown hotel just before I left to come here, so he told me to go on ahead and he'd start it without me. You guys ready?"

Coats on, the visitors picked up their bags and nodded.

"All right then, let's do it." Rogers led the way across the concourse.

# # # # #

"God, I forgot how cold it gets back here in the winter," Dan shivered from the back seat.

"Here," Rogers said, glancing at the dashboard, "I'll turn the heat up a little more. Tell me if you feel it."

Dan could hear the heater fan speed up and warm air started to seep into the back from under the front seats. "That's better, thanks."

Rogers chuckled. "Jeez, it's not even cold out today," he muttered under his breath, glancing at Steve across the front seat. "So, because it's so late in the day, like I said yesterday on the phone, we're gonna head straight to Hagerstown and meet up with Milo and his partner, and he's gonna take us to a judge who he thinks is our best bet to expedite the warrants. You got the file?" He glanced into the rearview mirror.

Dan met his eyes and patted the flight bag on the seat beside him. "Right in here. All the i's dotted and all the t's crossed."

Rogers nodded. "Good. I figured, if we get the go ahead from the judge, it'd be better if we pick Mercer up at his work tomorrow morning, first thing. Milo said we can interview him at their shop tomorrow and hold him there until we get the extradition papers signed and sealed. Hopefully that won't take too long." He looked at Steve. "I'm assuming you have a tentative flight booked to go home."

Steve nodded. "We sure do – a bunch of them actually." He held up a hand, warding off the observation he knew would be coming. "And I know, I know, I can't be in on any of this – don't worry. That's why I brought Dan along," he finished with a laugh, glancing warmly over the back of the seat.

Rogers looked in the rearview mirror again. "I bet it'll be great to get your partner back again."

Dan chuckled. "You have no idea. I never realized how much I would miss the big guy when he wasn't there."

" _The big guy?"_ The Philadelphia detective glanced at Steve.

"Ah, yeah, he's as tall as you are but not as, ah…" Steve was waving his hands vaguely, searching for the right word.

"Fat?" Rogers asked with a sneer.

"No, no, no," Steve said quickly, trying to suppress a chuckle. He could hear Dan smothering a laugh, his hand over his mouth. "Um… substantial…" Smiling, Steve nodded sharply, proud of his quick thinking.

"Substantial, hunh?" Rogers mulled the word over, glancing at the younger man out of the corner of his eye. Finally he nodded. "Yeah, okay… I can live with that." His booming belly laugh filled the car.

A comfortable silence settled over them. The headlights picked up a blue sign on the side of the highway. "There's a Welcome Center coming up in about five miles," Rogers announced. "You guys wanna stop and get a cup a coffee and maybe something to eat, use the facilities?"

Steve glanced at Dan and they both nodded. "Sounds good to me. We seem to be making good time."

"We're making great time," Rogers chuckled. "I have a reputation for having a lead foot." He looked across the front seat again. "So, ah, so what did Mike say when you confronted him with all the info you guys had dug up on him and Mercer?"

Steve smiled and shook his head. "He, ah, well, he didn't say too much at first, he knew we had him dead to rights. And, I have to admit, we didn't exactly play fair. We started out with two of our guys, the ADA and Mike's PBA lawyer in the room with him. And then, as we revealed piece by piece everything we'd uncovered, another one of our guys would join them, until everybody was in the room all at once." He cleared his throat. "And then I walked in with Mario Costaldo…"

Rogers turned to him and snapped his fingers. "That's the, ah, that's the butcher, right?"

Steve nodded. "Yep. The game was well and truly over then, and everybody knew it, especially Mike."

"I almost felt bad about it," Dan said quietly from the back seat. "I felt like we ambushed him, but I really can't think of any other way we could've done it. We needed to hit him with everything we'd uncovered so that he couldn't fight back, he couldn't dispute anything we put in front of him. And he didn't."

Rogers nodded soberly. "Did he tell you why?" he asked softly.

Steve looked at him and smiled wistfully. "It was basically what we thought all along… guilt. He thought Mercer had suffered enough…"

"And he was willing to sacrifice himself…?" Dan and Steve knew the question was rhetorical and neither responded, but they both nodded. "Man," Rogers continued as he snapped the turn signal on and pulled into the exit lane to the Welcome Center, "I don't think there're too many out there that would go that far. That partner of yours, Dan," he raised his voice, glancing into the rearview mirror again, "he sounds like a pretty special guy."

Dan smiled warmly to himself. "Yes, he is, Stan… yes, he is."


	45. Chapter 45

"I don't know why I feel so tired, it's only 7 o'clock back home," Steve moaned as he rubbed his hands over his face then into his hair.

Rogers chuckled as he put his beer glass back on the table. "Well, it ain't jet lag, but I'll hazard a guess it just might be you coming down from that non-stop high you've been on trying to get to the bottom of all this."

With a dry chuckle, Steve leaned back in the heavy leather-and-wood armchair in the hotel bar and nodded, glancing around the table with a smirk. "Yeah, you're probably right." He looked at the big blond man taking a sip of his red wine beside him, laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "Milo, I would've never taken you to be a wine man."

The big Hagerstown detective grinned and shrugged. "I've never liked beer, even when I was a teenager – not that I drank when I was a teenager, mind you," he continued quickly, glancing furtively around the table with a chuckle.

"Yeah, he's the more 'refined' type," his partner, Pat McCabe, sneered good-naturedly as he picked up his Guinness and took a swig.

"I don't know how you can drink that stuff," Dan said with a shudder, gesturing at the dark stout.

Licking the foam from his upper lip, McCabe held the glass aloft. "It's an acquired taste for sure."

"You can say that again, " Drabinsky stared at the Guinness with distaste and everyone chuckled.

Steve looked at the two Hagerstown detectives. "Thanks again, you guys, for getting us in to see the judge so quickly. I can't believe he validated the arrest warrant already. That's great."

Drabinsky nodded with a smile. "You're more than welcome. We deal with Judge Saunders a lot. He's a good guy. Pat and I went in to see him yesterday after we got the call from Stan and laid everything out for him. He was stunned and very sympathetic. I'm pretty sure he'll get the extradition warrant signed as soon as he can, but that may take a day or two."

"Hey, we've waited this long, another day or two is not a problem, so long as we get to bring Mercer home with us." Dan took a sip of his beer and put the glass back on the coaster.

Rogers, who was sitting back, let his eyes shift slowly from one Californian to the other. "I'm just curious," he began slowly and quietly, and everyone looked at him, "what do you two think about Mercer right now? I mean, I know neither of you know him – and Dan, you've never even seen him. And after all he's put Mike through – and by extension the two of you… well, I'm just wondering what you both think of him right now?"

When he finished talking, his eyes remained on Steve; for some reason he had assumed, correctly it turned out, that the older of the pair had more skin in the game, so to speak. The criminology professor glanced at Dan and sat forward slightly. It wasn't a question he had expected.

He rested his elbows on his thighs and laced his fingers. Looking down, he slowly shook his head and snorted. "That's a really good question, Stan, because, you know, I'm not sure anymore. When I first found out about what Mike had done, that he had taken the fall for Mercer, I think I was almost blinded by my… not hatred, because I didn't know him… but intense dislike for this man who not only had taken a life but had literally also taken the cowards way out and let another man take the rap and actually go to prison for him."

He stopped and sighed. "But, you know, the more we talked to Mike," he glanced up at Dan, who was staring at him expressionlessly, "the more I came to realize that maybe Mercer's been a tortured soul for all these years... I don't know what it is to have a child… I don't know what that bond is like… but Mike does, and I respect that."

He looked up at Rogers with a mirthless smile. "So, to answer your question, Stan, sort of… I don't know. I'm prepared to hate him, but right now I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, you know. Hear his side of the story, if he really has one… He has to pay for what he did, there's no doubt about that, but part of me's hoping they'll cut him some slack." He shrugged slightly, shaking his head sadly. Then he looked up at Dan.

The youngest man at the table glanced at everyone before his eyes found Stan's and he nodded once and smiled softly. "I guess I feel just like Steve does, in that I don't know how to feel, really. I do want to know how _he_ feels now, so many months later… now that the shock has no doubt worn off and he's fully aware that another, innocent man is serving time in prison instead of him. I mean, I know how I would feel about that…" He exhaled loudly.

"Anyway, ah, I'll see what happens tomorrow, when we're finally face to face." He smiled at the others. "I'm glad you guys are going to be with me," he said to Drabinsky and McCabe.

"Speaking of which," Drabinsky said, glancing at his watch, "I gotta get outa here. My wife was expecting me hours ago." He turned to his partner. "You coming?"

Finishing his Guinness, McCabe slammed the empty glass down as he stood. "Right behind ya, boss," he chuckled, then turned to the others and winked. "See you in morning, fellas."

"Yeah, we'll pick you up at 9," Drabinsky confirmed. "Mercer's boss said he usually starts around 8:30-8:45 so we want to make sure he's in before we make our appearance. It's only a ten-minute drive from here so we'll get there in no time."

"Sounds good," Rogers confirmed and everyone said their goodbyes.

When the others had gone, Rogers turned to the two San Franciscans. "Are you guys totally bushed or are you up for one more before we head upstairs?"

Dan glanced at Steve. "If we're not getting picked up till 9, I can have another."

Steve flopped back in the chair and chuckled. "Sure, why not?"

"Great. This round goes on my tab," Rogers grinned as he got the waitress's attention then made a circling motion towards the table with his forefinger. He waved his thanks as he settled back in the chair again. "So, Dan, Steve here's told me about life on the job in 'Fri-" He glanced at Steve guiltily and cleared his throat. "San Francisco. How do you like it?"

Dan looked at Steve with raised eyebrows. He snorted a laugh. "You gave him the 'Frisco lecture?"

Steve nodded with a closed-mouthed grin and wide eyes. Rogers sighed theatrically. "He sure did."

Continuing to chuckle, Dan settled comfortably into the chair and a warm smile lit his face. "So, ah, how do I like working in Homicide… or how do I like working with Mike?"

Rogers frowned slightly and glanced at Steve. "There's a difference?"

Dan stopped laughing and his smile disappeared. "For me there is," he said so quietly they almost didn't hear him. Steve frowned but refrained from leaning forward. Dan inhaled deeply and looked up, glancing at both Steve and Rogers.

"I, ah, I love working Homicide. It's tough sometimes, as I don't have to tell either of you, and the hours can be long and sometimes it's just so… disturbing that I get nightmares…" His voice petered out.

"We all do, Dan," Steve whispered encouragingly.

Dan nodded, staring into the middle distance, his mind far away. Then he smiled slightly, "But working with Mike… I treasure that, I really do."

Staring at him, Steve swallowed heavily, suddenly and surprisingly envious. Rogers chuckled. "I gotta meet this guy," he said sweetly and both Californians looked at him and grinned.

"Oh, you will," Steve said with a laugh, "if I have anything to do with it, you will."

# # # # #

Mike was doing his best Steve McQueen impersonation, sitting on the bunk and bouncing the softball off the floor and the wall opposite then catching it in the softening glove, over and over again. An inmate in a cell further along the row had complained about the irritatingly repetitive noise but the guard had shut him up, winking at Mike as he passed his cell. "He ain't never seen 'The Great Escape' I guess."

Chuckling softly, Mike had continued to toss the ball; he'd made a lot of friends in this building over the years and it was paying off.

Just before dinnertime, and after regular visiting hours, he heard footsteps approaching his cell and the voices of the guard and his daughter. He'd given up playing catch, much to the relief of the guy down the row, and was lying down reading a fairly recent Time magazine. He sat up quickly, taking off his glasses and putting them in his shirt pocket.

The guard opened the cell gate door and smiled. "You got a visitor, Mike. She can't stay long… it's past visiting hours, as ya know, but she brought you something." He took a step back and Jeannie appeared around the corner and entered the cell, holding something round covered with a gingham dishtowel. She grinned at her father then looked back at the guard. His smile got even wider and he pointed at the item in her hand. "She gave me a piece as a bribe," he whispered theatrically with an exaggerated wink.

Mike's frown turned into a wide smile and he winked back. "Then I taught her well, Frank," he chuckled as the guard closed the door, laughing, and disappeared back down the corridor.

"I didn't think you were coming today," he said warmly as he took her elbow and steered her towards the bunk.

"I wasn't," she explained as she sat, "but Steve and Dan flew to Baltimore this morning and I finished the baking I was doing so I just decided to take a chance and come."

"You're lucky it was Frank on duty; he and I go way back. I don't think the other guys would be so… accommodating." He sniffed the air and grinned. "That's an apple pie, isn't it?"

Laughing, she took the towel off the pie plate. "Ta-da! I see your nose is still working."

His eyes widened as he looked at the beautiful golden lattice crust; a quarter of the pie was gone. She mimed a frown, glancing at the missing piece. "That was the entrance fee," she chuckled.

"Well, it was worth it," he laughed as he sat down beside her on the bunk.

"Here," she said, handing the pie plate to him. She opened her purse and took out two forks and a handful of napkins.

"Thanks!" he grinned as he took a fork and sliced off a piece.

She watched as he chewed, closing his eyes in bliss with a low moan of pleasure. She chuckled warmly and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "The day you come home, Daddy, I'm cooking a big pot roast, for you and Steve and all the guys." She stared at him as he turned to her, his eyes bright. Swallowing, he held up a forefinger but she beat him to the punch. "I know, you don't have to remind me - and something vegetarian for Dan!"

Frank could hear their laughter all the way to his desk.

# # # # #

The dark blue Chevrolet Caprice pulled to the curb down the block from the six-storey grey cement building, and Hagerstown Detective Sergeant Patrick McCabe turned the engine off. The dark brown Caprice that was following continued down the street for several hundred yards until it found an open parking space and pulled in.

McCabe and Rogers got out of the first car and waited on the sidewalk for the other three to join them. "You got the paperwork?" Rogers asked Dan and he nodded, touching his winter coat just over the breast pocket of the jacket underneath.

Drabinsky took a step back and gestured towards the office building. "Gentlemen, shall we?" The five men entered the warmth of the lobby and crossed towards the bank of elevators, stuffing gloves into pockets and opening their winter coats. Drabinsky pushed the UP button.

Dan shot a look at Steve, who nodded his encouragement. "Go get him," the university professor chuckled but there was little mirth behind the words. This was the moment they had been waiting for for a long time.

The elevator chimed its arrival. Dan, Drabinsky and McCabe stepped into the car and McCabe punched the floor button. As the doors closed and the car started to take them towards the unsuspecting man in the offices of Spencer Finegold, Steve turned to Rogers and sighed. They crossed to the black leather three-seater against the far wall and sat.

No matter how quickly it all went upstairs, they both knew it was going to be too long.


	46. Chapter 46

The elevator door opened on the fifth floor. Gold letters on the wall opposite confirmed that the accounting firm Spencer Finegold was to their right. With Drabinsky leading the way, the three detectives strode purposefully down the hallway to the tall glass doors and entered the well-appointed reception area of the obviously prosperous business.

Holding out their badges and I.D.'s, they approached the young woman behind the large desk. "May I help you -?" she began with a welcoming smile before her eyes fell on their credentials and she froze.

Drabinsky's smile was friendly and his voice was calm and gentle. "Good morning. Could you tell us where Mr. Gordon Mercer is right now?"

Swallowing heavily, her eyes wide, the young woman stared at him blankly for a couple of beats before she shook her head slightly and raised her right hand, pointing down the corridor to their left. "Um, he's in his, uh, his office, uh, down that way…" Almost in a trance she began to stand up.

"No, no, no," the big detective said quickly, waving her back down, "we'll find it. Stay here, please." Keeping his badge in his hand, he started down the corridor, Dan and McCabe right behind him. Dan nodded his thanks to the receptionist as he passed her.

There were several office doors off the corridor, nameplates on the walls beside them. Mercer's was the third door on the right. Drabinsky glanced back at his colleagues before he raised his hand and knocked briskly on the door then opened it without waiting for a response.

There was a bespectacled man in shirtsleeves sitting in the large leather chair behind the ornate wooden desk, poring over several large files. He looked up as the door opened, frowning. "Can I help you?" he asked almost angrily, taking off his glasses, as the three unfamiliar men stepped into his office and stood before his desk.

Drabinsky stared at him silently until Mercer's eyes fell to the badge he was holding out and suddenly all movement and protestation ceased. Mercer's eyes traveled slowly upwards from the gold shield to the detective's sober face. Releasing his held breath, Mercer's pale eyes migrated to the second gold shield and then the gold star.

All three detectives saw him close his eyes; if there was going to be any fight in the man, they knew, it disappeared in that instant.

Drabinsky slid his badge into his pants pocket. "Are you Gordon Mercer?"

The suddenly pale middle-aged man nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Drabinsky's face.

"Would you stand up please?"

Putting the pen and his glasses down, he nodded softly and got to his feet, pushing the chair away with the back of his legs. McCabe and Dan pocketed their badges; McCabe snapped his cuffs off the back of his belt and crossed around the desk to behind Mercer while Dan took the signed arrest warrant out of his jacket pocket.

McCabe snagged Mercer's suitcoat from the back of the chair and handed it to the accountant, gesturing with his chin for him to put it on. As he did so, McCabe looked around the room, frowning. "You got a winter coat?" he asked Mercer, who stared at him in confusion.

"Um, ah, yeah, it's, ah…. there's a coat closet near reception."

Drabinsky nodded at McCabe. "We'll get it on the way out."

McCabe stepped in front of Mercer and he held his hands out. As the detective gently snapped the cuffs around the accountant's wrists, Drabinsky put his hands on the desk and leaned closer. "Gordon Mercer, you are under arrest for the murder of Leonard Cord."

Mercer didn't react; he was looking down at the cuffs. Drabinsky continued, reciting the Miranda warning. "Do you understand your rights?" he finished and after a split second Mercer nodded quickly.

"Let's go," McCabe said quietly, taking the suspect by the elbow and steering him around the desk. Dan opened the office door and waited while the others exited the room. There were several people with worried faces on both sides of the hall, the soft buzz of whispers.

As they reached the reception area, which was similarly teeming with confused and concerned colleagues, a tall gray-haired man in a thousand dollar suit strode briskly towards them, glancing worriedly at Mercer before turning his attention to Drabinsky, uncannily discerning that he was the one in charge. "What's going on here?"

Drabinsky stopped, both hands in his coat pockets, and grinned. "Ah, Mr. Spencer or Mr. Finegold?"

McCabe smothered a laugh as he pulled Mercer to a stop in front of the receptionist and leaned towards her. "Could you get Mr. Mercer's coat for me, please?" he asked softly.

Her blue eyes darted from the detective to her boss and back again and she nodded quickly if a little uncertainly. She got up and crossed rapidly but quietly to the closet nearby.

"Jacob Finegold," the man in the Armani suit introduced himself almost angrily, "can you please tell me what's going on here? Why is Gordon in handcuffs?"

Drabinsky's smile was perfunctory. "He's under arrest for a murder in San Francisco. You, ah, you might want to start advertising for a replacement. I don't think he'll be back for awhile."

McCabe had thrown Mercer's black wool winter coat over the accountant's shoulders and, with Dan leading the way and Drabinsky bringing up the rear, the little entourage, Mercer staring at his feet, stepped through the tall glass doors and disappeared down the corridor towards the elevators.

It had taken less than five minutes.

# # # # #

Steve and Stan Rogers hadn't taken their eyes from the elevator doors since their colleagues had disappeared from sight. Steve glanced at his watch again; it was less than five minutes but it seemed like an hour already. Every time the chime rang and a door opened they would freeze momentarily, only to relax when a stranger emerged.

Then a door opened and Dan Robbins stepped into view. He glanced over at them and nodded once; there was no smile. A man they only vaguely recognized from the DMV photo walked out of the elevator behind him, a winter coat over his shoulders and his hands cuffed in front of him. McCabe and Drabinsky were on either side, their hands on his elbows.

Letting the others get ahead of them, Steve and Rogers got to their feet and followed them out onto the snow-cleared sidewalk. McCabe steered Mercer towards the dark blue Caprice down the block; Dan followed.

Drabinsky pulled the keys out of his pocket and nodded towards the dark brown car up the street. "We'll follow them."

As they strode briskly towards the unmarked cop car, Steve looked at the tall blond Hagerstown cop. "Did he say anything?"

Drabinsky shook his head. "He hasn't said a word. He was totally compliant. But I think there's a lot going on inside, you know. Gut instinct? I think he's gonna talk when he's cornered…"

Steve sighed. "I hope so."

# # # # #

The interrogation room in the Hagerstown Police Department headquarters looked very much like the one in Philadelphia and the one in San Francisco. The four detectives and the criminology professor were standing in the anteroom, looking at Gordon Mercer through the one-way glass.

The slightly balding, light-haired middle-aged accountant with the soft features and soft hands was sitting on the far side of the six-foot metal table, his cuffed hands in his lap, his head down. The intercom was on but no sound was coming from the room. He was eerily motionless and silent.

"Now that doesn't look like a man who could beat someone the size of Cord, from what you told me about him," Rogers glanced at Steve, who nodded, "to death but, hey, we all know about not judging a book, right…?"

McCabe, who was standing closest to the interrogation room door, glanced at his partner. "I think he's ready…"

Drabinsky, whose eyes were on Mercer, nodded slowly. "Yeah." He glanced at the others. "Let's go."

Rogers took a step back. "I'll, ah, I'll wait in here. This really isn't my case. I'm just an interested bystander." He grinned at Steve and Dan. "You two have all the ammunition you need… you don't need me."

With confirming nods, the two San Franciscans started towards the door, following the locals. Dan picked up the file from the table near the door as he followed Steve into the interrogation room, moving past McCabe, who closed the door behind him. Drabinsky and Dan sat in the two metal chairs opposite Mercer; Steve gravitated to the corner behind Dan, McCabe leaned against the wall near the door. Mercer didn't look up.

Dan placed the file on the table and opened it, then glanced at Drabinsky, who leaned forward, resting his beefy forearms against the edge of the table. He didn't say anything. An uncomfortable silence filled the room, but it was a silence the new arrivals were accustomed to; they had all the time in the world.

Eventually, feeling the four pairs of eyes burning into him, Mercer looked up slightly.

"Mr. Mercer, I'm Detective Sergeant Drabinsky, Hagerstown Homicide." He nodded to his left. "That's Sergeant McCabe, my partner back there. And this here is Inspector Robbins… from San Francisco Homicide." The pause for effect was the perfect touch, and Mercer's already worried eyes snapped quickly to the young dark-haired man across the table. Involuntarily he licked his dry lips and swallowed.

A tiny smile curled the corners of Drabinsky's thin lips and he waited a long beat before he continued, tilting his head slightly to the right. "The man back there's not a cop, but he used to be one. His name is Keller."

Before Mercer dropped his head again, they all saw his eyes widen slightly; they couldn't be sure if it was in recognition of the name or not.

Drabinsky continued, his voice not unkind. "You've been read your rights, Mr. Mercer, and you confirmed that you understood them, but you never told us if you want a lawyer or not… We can get you one if you –"

"I don't want a lawyer," Mercer said so softly they almost didn't hear him.

"I'm sorry…?" Drabinsky prompted, glancing at Dan, who shrugged slightly.

"I said I don't want a lawyer," Mercer repeated a little louder but not lifting his head.

Drabinsky paused and sat back slightly. "All right. You know why you're here, don't you, Mr. Mercer." It was a statement, not a question. Mercer eventually nodded. "And why is that?"

"Because you said I murdered Leonard Cord." The voice was flat and emotionless.

Steve quickly unfolded his crossed arms and took a half-step towards the table. Dan and Drabinsky exchanged a look then the Hagerstown detective leaned forward again. "I'm afraid you might have, uh, misunderstood the implication behind the charges, Mr. Mercer. You weren't arrested because I _said_ you murdered Leonard Cord; you were arrested because you _did_ murder Leonard Cord. And we can prove it."

Dan turned the file around and slid it across the table towards the handcuffed man. "Mr. Mercer… or should I call you Allan Fitzgerald?" Dan paused, and Mercer's head snapped up, his stunned eyes fixing on Dan for a split second before he dropped them again. "Mr. Mercer, in that file are reports from the police departments of San Francisco, Philadelphia, Washington and Hagerstown detailing your… travels and exploits over the past year in your pursuance of Leonard Cord, who was convicted in 1973 of the brutal murder of your daughter Valerie. It culminates with the murder, at your hand, of Leonard Cord in San Francisco last September."

When Mercer remained detached and motionless, Dan glanced at Drabinsky. The big detective cleared his throat abruptly and loudly and Mercer jerked involuntarily, startled.

"Mr. Mercer, we have records of your flights to and from San Francisco, under the name Allan Fitzgerald, statements from Charlie Albertson – you remember him, right? - the landlord for the apartment on Treat Street in San Francisco, the doctor at St. Francis who first treated your broken hand and your doctor here in Hagerstown who put your hand in a cast. And, ah, and that's just the beginning..."

Another silence lengthened with still no reaction from Mercer. Steve leaned back against the corner and folded his arms again; things were well under control.

Drabinsky inhaled deeply. "So, uh, is there anything you want to say in your defense?"

After a few long seconds, Mercer shook his head.

"Well, in that case," Drabinsky said with a sigh, starting to get to his feet, "you'll be detained here until the extradition warrant is validated then Inspector Robbins here, and Mr. Keller, will be taking you back to San Francisco where you will stand trial for the murder of Leonard Cord."

Mercer suddenly looked up, straight at Dan. "Do you work with Lieutenant Stone?"

Everybody froze. Dan met the suspect's eyes evenly and calmly. "Yes… yes, I do. I'm his partner."

Mercer's pale eyes shifted to Steve. "I remember you. You _used_ to be the Lieutenant's partner, weren't you?"

Steve uncrossed his arms again and took a step closer to the table. He nodded. "That's right."

Mercer looked at Drabinsky. "I'll talk to them and nobody else."

The Hagerstown detective stared at him for a long second then nodded. "Sure." He glanced at his partner and nodded again and McCabe opened the door. The two local detectives left the room.

When the door closed, Steve sat in Drabinsky's vacated chair and both he and Dan leaned forward. "What do you have to tell us, Mr. Mercer?"


	47. Chapter 47

Mercer was looking down again and he didn't move for several long seconds. Steve and Dan waited, knowing this was the pivotal moment, and neither wanted the beleaguered accountant to close up. They resisted the urge to look at each other.

Eventually Mercer murmured something so faintly that neither of them heard him clearly. Dan glanced quickly at Steve then asked gently, "Pardon me…?"

There were several more long silent seconds then Mercer's head came up slowly and he met Dan's eyes. "I never meant for this to happen…" he whispered sadly, his entire being radiating a deep regret and sorrow.

Dan lowered his head slightly. "You never meant for what to happen?" he prompted gently.

Mercer swallowed heavily. "All of it…"

Steve tilted his head and tried a slight, encouraging smile. "Why don't you start from the beginning and tell us what happened, what you never meant to happen, okay?"

Nodding, his eyes on the table, Mercer looked up at him and bit his lower lip. His eyes slid towards Dan. "The things you said… about the flights… and the apartment… Charlie Albertson… " He shook his head and looked down again. "All that's true… everything you said is true…."

"How did you first contact Dorothy Miller?"

Mercer's head came up quickly and he frowned, his eyes narrowing. He exhaled raggedly. "Please, she didn't do anything wrong… she just gave me some information on Leonard Cord –"

"We know that, Mr. Mercer," Dan said quickly, holding a hand up, "it's okay, one of our colleagues just talked to her. She's not in any trouble. We just want to know how you found out she worked in San Quentin?"

Mercer stared at him, as if not wanting to believe that someone else had been caught up in this horrible business, then bobbled his head slowly. He almost smiled. "Bob McIleny is a close friend of mine from work… I've talked to him a lot, I guess, over the years about…" he inhaled deeply, "about my daughter and, ah, Leonard Cord… he knew what I was going through… Bob, ah, Bob told me that his brother and his wife lived in Northern California, Marin County actually, and that his sister-in-law worked for the warden at San Quentin."

His eyes slid sadly from Dan to Steve and back again. "Hell of a coincidence, hunh…?" He looked down again. "For awhile there I actually thought it might've been a sign from God…"

They waited silently while Mercer marshaled his thoughts and continued. "Anyway, all I ever asked her to do was to let me know if Leonard Cord ever got transferred or, god forbid, released. That's all I asked her to do, I swear." He looked up at them pleadingly and both younger men nodded.

"We know that," Dan assured softly.

Steve frowned slightly; he was struck by Mercer's habit of calling Cord by his full name, as if he was a thing and not a person. He made a mental note to ask one of Berkeley's psychologists when he got home.

"We know you started making trips, under the name Allan Fitzgerald, to San Francisco almost a year ago, when there was no talk about Cord getting out. Why did you start doing that?"

Mercer stared into Steve's eyes for a long second before he inhaled deeply. "In the years since my daughter was murdered, I'd become more and more obsessed with him, with what he did not only to Valerie but to that girl he went to prison for the first time. He was an animal and he didn't deserve to live in relative security with three meals a day and a roof over his head while my daughter rotted in a grave."

Both younger men watched as the soft-featured man before them turned into this taut, tightly-controlled coil of anger, the veins in his forehead and cords in his neck standing out. Mercer seemed to catch himself, closing his eyes and dropping his head, his body relaxing as he exhaled loudly.

Steve and Dan glanced at each other and Steve leaned forward slightly.

With a dry chuckle, Mercer raised his head. "I don't have a crystal ball, I had no idea Leonard Cord was going to get out when he did, but finally, after years of total and abject frustration, I got lucky… if you can call it that."

"Mrs. Miler called you," Dan offered.

Mercer nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly.

Steve glanced at Dan then said softly. "Mr. Mercer, we know what happened in San Francisco with Charlie Albertson. What we'd like to know right now is… what happened in the warehouse on Pier 5 that night?"

The accountant sat back in the hard metal chair, his head down, looking sad and defeated. "I never meant for it to happen the way it did…" he whispered, "I never meant to kill him."

"How did it happen?" Steve asked gently. When Mercer showed no sign of answering right away, he prompted, "We know you used a gun to get him into your car? Is that what you used to keep him under control?"

Eventually Mercer nodded. "I've always found it fascinating that a bully will become a coward when he's staring down the barrel of a gun. Leonard Cord was no different."

"But why didn't you shoot him? You had a gun, it would've been so easy just to shoot him and throw him into the Bay, wouldn't it?"

"Then he wouldn't've suffered… and I wanted him to suffer… I wanted him to know pain and agony, the same kind of pain and agony I've been in since he killed my daughter…" He inhaled raggedly and his eyes brightened.

They let the silence lengthen, knowing the cornered man wanted to talk but that he needed to do it in his own time, at his own speed.

"I, ah, I made him walk to the center of the warehouse and kneel… put his hands behind his neck…"

"You didn't have handcuffs?" Dan asked calmly, not wanting to disturb the narrative but needing a question answered.

Mercer shook his head. "No…. no, I didn't need to… like I said, a coward and a gun…" A small smile almost emerged. "He, ah, he thought I was going to shoot him in the back of the head… he was crying…" He snorted mirthlessly. "The vicious little coward was actually crying he was so scared… I'd thought about shooting him but when he started to cry and beg for his life… that's when I knew I had to make him suffer…

"So I hit him… I don't remember if it was with my fist or the gun, but I hit him… hard, against the side of his head and he went down… and I don't remember much after that, just hitting him again and again… there was blood everywhere and my hand… such incredible pain in my hand but I couldn't stop, I just couldn't stop… I hit him again and again and again until he wasn't moving anymore…"

Mercer was breathing heavily through his mouth and tears were sliding down his cheeks. He was staring at the table, his chest heaving.

Steve could hear his own heart pounding in his ears; he glanced at Dan and knew he was not alone.

"What did you do next?" Dan asked quietly after an appropriate silence.

Still looking down, Mercer shook his head. "Nothing… I just sat there on the cold floor, staring at Leonard Cord…I don't know how long… and then Lieutenant Stone was there." He raised his head and his eyes moved slowly from Steve to Dan. "I don't know when… or how he got there… he just… appeared."

"What did he do?" Steve asked quietly.

Mercer cleared his throat and his face contorted momentarily as he relived the nightmare. "He, ah, he didn't say anything… I guess it was pretty obvious what had happened. I remember he knelt down beside Leonard Cord and felt for a pulse, I guess… then he stared at me – not in an angry way… more… sad, I guess, or maybe disappointed…" He shook his head, looking away again. "He, ah, he told me to stay where I was and he, I don't know, he walked around the warehouse for a couple of minutes. When he came back he asked me if I had any money on me. I had about a hundred and fifty dollars. He said he needed it to keep me out of trouble so he took a hundred and left me the rest. And then he told me to get out of there."

"He just told you to leave?" Steve asked, frowning.

Mercer nodded. "Yeah. He, ah, he made it sound like an order, you know… I really felt like I didn't have a choice. I wanted to stay… I wanted to take responsibility, you know, I didn't want him to do it… I never thought he would, you know." He started to breathe quickly, his eyes now flicking quickly from Steve to Dan and back. "I never thought he'd confess to killing Leonard Cord – that was something that I was going to do, you have to believe me… I never meant for Lieutenant Stone to go to prison for me… never… never…" The tears began to flow faster and his breathing became uneven. "I was already home here before I even knew he was going to prison…"

"How did you find out?" Dan asked.

"I, ah, I went to the main library… they get newspapers from all over the country, a few days late but still… It took awhile but I went every day until I saw the article." He looked up at them guiltily. "I was checking to see if were any stories about the murder, but I didn't see anything until there was that one about Lieutenant Stone." He shook his head and inhaled deeply. "I couldn't believe it."

"Did you think you were off the hook for good?" Steve asked carefully and Mercer's eyes snapped up to meet his own. The accountant looked guilt-ridden.

"I don't know… I really don't. Ever since I learned that the Lieutenant was in prison, I've been a mess, I really have. I can't sleep, my work is suffering… People think that it's because Leonard Cord's murder brought back a lot of bad memories for me…"

"Is that what you told people?" Dan pumped him.

Mercer almost managed a smile. "I guess you could say I didn't dissuade them. Everybody I work with knows about my daughter, so it wasn't a big stretch. So, ah, I just kept my mouth shut and let them think that that's what it was…" He shook his head and his face crumpled again. "I am so, so ashamed…" A poignant sob tore from his throat.

Dan looked at Steve. "I think that's enough for now, Mr. Mercer. We'll talk again later." He began to stand.

Steve looked from Dan to Mercer. "Just one more question, Mr. Mercer. What did you do with the gun?"

Mercer frowned. "The gun? What do you mean?"

"The night you killed Leonard Cord, you said you had a gun. What happened to it?"

The accountant's frown deepened and he shook his head in confusion. "I, I don't remember… honest to god, I don't remember… the last time I had it in my hand was right before I started to… you know…"

"Okay, thanks," Steve said, getting to his feet. "Would you like a cup of coffee or something? You're gonna be here awhile."

A look of almost pathetic gratitude crossed Mercer's face. "Yes, thank you. A coffee please, with milk and sugar?"

Steve nodded with a grim smile. "Someone will bring it to you." He turned and followed Dan through the door into the anteroom.

Rogers was leaning against the desk, Drabinsky and McCabe standing in front of the window, all staring at them as Steve closed the door.

"Well," Rogers asked with raised eyebrows, "that's quite the story. The question now is - do you believe him?"

Dan looked at Steve, who tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. Dan sighed heavily. "Yeah, I do," he said quietly and looked at his colleague.

Steve started to nod slowly. "So do I." He looked at Rogers. "I walked in there not wanting to believe anything that came out of his mouth, furious with him for hanging Mike out to dry… and now I have to admit that I believe him too."

Drabinsky got up from the desk and chuckled. "Well, that makes it unanimous 'cause the three of us do as well."

"But that doesn't mean he doesn't have to pay for what he did, right?" Rogers said quickly, looking around the room. "He's got to go back to San Francisco with you guys and serve his time. And you have to get Mike out and back home, right?"

"Absolutely," Dan said with a grim smile.

"Of course," Steve agreed, walking towards the window, his hands on his hips, staring at the motionless accountant behind the table in the interrogation room. "But now I think I know why Mike did what he did." He sighed deeply. "I almost feel sorry for the guy."


	48. Chapter 48

Standing behind the defense table beside PBA lawyer Jack Fowler, Mike Stone, still in his prison grays but no longer handcuffed, kept his head down as Judge Charles Stanton looked through the papers ADA Gerald O'Brien had given him moments before.

O'Brien glanced over his shoulder at Jeannie, Steve and Dan, who were sitting in the gallery behind the defendant; they were the only onlookers the judge had allowed. His brief half-smile was encouraging.

He had delivered the petition for pardon from the California Board of Prison Terms to the judge two days before. It had taken over two weeks from the day of Gordon Mercer's arrest in Maryland for the petition for pardon to be approved by the Board and then receive the Governor's consent and signature.

During that period of time, the 1970s had ended, and a new decade had begun. Mercer's extradition to San Francisco had been slightly delayed because of the holidays, so Steve and Dan had been forced to spend the New Year back east. Leaving their prisoner under the watchful eyes of the Hagerstown, Maryland Police Department, they had returned to Philadelphia with Detective Stan Rogers, checking into a cheap hotel near the airport.

The Philadelphia homicide division was holding a New Year's Eve party at an Italian Hall near the substation Rogers worked out of, and the San Franciscans were invited. As fellow members of the thin blue line, current and former, they fit right in, swapping war stories and comparing scars.

But no matter how enjoyable the festivities had been, the young men couldn't stop thinking about their mentor, the man who meant so much to them both, spending his New Year's Eve and New Year's Day in a small cell on the top floor of the building in which he had spent most of his life in selfless public service.

On New Year's Day, while Steve and Dan spent the majority of the day with Rogers' extended family, enjoying the sumptuous meal and the Phillie hospitality, Jeannie cooked a turkey, invited some friends of hers and her dad's over for a midday meal, then packed up a picnic basket and went downtown to visit her father.

They sat on his bunk and she watched him eat as he savored his daughter's cooking and her company. He told her he wanted her to return to Seattle and her studies. She demurred, of course, but his argument was that he didn't want her to miss any more time and she could return easily when he went back to court for his release.

She reluctantly agreed and on the Wednesday morning, January 2nd, 1980, as Steve and Dan returned to Hagerstown with Rogers to pick up their prisoner then drive to Baltimore for their return trip to San Francisco, she made arrangements to fly to Seattle.

The American Airlines DC-8's back tires touched the runway at SFO just after 5 p.m. PST and by the time they reached their unmarked sedan in long-term parking it was close to 6. Traffic was mercifully light getting from the airport to the Hall and Dan drove the tan LTD into the underground garage.

Steve, who was sitting in the back with the handcuffed Mercer, felt a pang of longing along with a strong dose of déjà vu as he opened the back door and helped the subdued accountant slide across the seat and out into the exhaust laden air of the cavernous expanse.

With a dry chuckle, Dan, who had circled the car, pocketed his keys and put his hand on Mercer's elbow. "Here, I better do that. We don't want some shifty lawyer saying I let a civilian bring Mercer in for booking."

With a soft laugh, Steve took a step back and raised his hands. "Sorry, old habits, you know…"

More than one head turned in their direction as the trio made their way up to the lobby, then across to the banks of elevators on their way to booking. Neither of the younger men were sure if the confused looks were for their prisoner or the fact that Steve seemed to be in on the arrest. They chose to ignore everybody until Mercer was standing in front of the booking sergeant.

The requisite paperwork out of the way, they once more headed to the elevators and up to the seventh floor. As Dan escorted Mercer down the short hallway to the guard's desk, he glanced back at Steve and knew they were both thinking the same thing.

They stopped at the desk. The stocky grey-haired sergeant looked up and a wry smile almost lit his granite-chiseled features. "Is this the guy?" His voice was as rough as his face.

Dan smiled grimly and nodded. "Yeah." He handed over the paperwork.

Sergeant Frank Gleason looked at it, grumbling as his eyes took in the significant details. "All right, let's get him in there," he said gruffly as he got to his feet and reached for the large ring of keys attached to his belt. His grey eyes flicked towards Steve. "I didn't think you were a cop anymore?"

Steve smiled. "I'm not. I'm just an interested bystander."

Dan managed to smother his chuckle as Gleason froze and stared at the former Homicide inspector. A deep crease appeared between the older man's eyes then he just shook his head and mumbled something under his breath as he turned towards the heavy metal door and slid the required key into the lock.

Dan glanced back at Steve, his shoulders shaking in a silent laugh, as Gleason opened the door and stepped into the institutional beige concrete corridor with the line of metal doors on the left.

"The one at the far end is empty," Gleason muttered over his shoulder as he led them down the corridor. As he got near the fourth metal gated door, his somewhat brisk stride faltered and he slowed his pace. Both younger men knew why and did the same, but Mercer was unprepared and stepped on Gleason's heel. "Hey, watch out!" he glanced behind, almost shouting.

"Sorry, sorry," Mercer apologized quickly and Dan pulled him nearly to a stop. Within two more short steps, they were in front of the fourth cell. Gleason slowed even more but kept looking straight ahead. Both younger men stopped walking, turning as one to look into the cell. Dan pulled Mercer to a halt and the handcuffed man stopped abruptly, turning to look at the detective who had a firm grip on his arm.

Staring through the metal bars of his cell door, Mike Stone slowly rose from the bunk and took a couple of steps towards them. His eyes fell on Steve first, then Dan, then settled on Mercer. No one said a word.

As if suddenly aware of the eerie silence, Mercer turned to look where the others were focused. Through the heavy metal bars, his eyes met Mike's and he froze. Under his touch, Dan could feel the now accused murderer begin to shake.

Gleason, glancing back and taking in the tableau, said loudly, "Let's get him into his cell," and continued down the corridor. Dan, who had been staring at his partner, looked at Steve and nodded in an 'I've got this' gesture. Steve nodded back, barely taking his eyes from Mike's face; the blue eyes hadn't left Mercer, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

When Gleason, Dan and Mercer moved out of his line of sight, Mike stepped to the door and put his hands on the bars. Steve moved closer and their eyes met. Mike swallowed heavily, his eyes asking the question. Steve nodded slowly and, closing his eyes, Mike laid his forehead between the bars and sighed, as if a heavy weight had been lifted.

With a relieved smile, Steve reached his right hand through the bars and gripped the back of his former partner's neck, then leaned forward so they were forehead to forehead. "It's over," he whispered, and heard Mike take a deep, unsteady breath.

That had been almost two weeks ago. It had taken O'Brien and his team of lawyers until now to get all the necessary paperwork and approvals, and a few extra things that the ADA thought might help in persuading the San Francisco Circuit Court judge to not only ratify the pardon of the former, and highly decorated, Homicide detective, but would go a long way in his bid for reinstatement.

Judge Stanton glanced up from the raft of papers before him and almost smiled at the defendant. "Mr. Stone," he started, then stopped and almost laughed. "Okay, I admit, I'm having trouble with that." More than just his bailiff stared at him in confusion. The jurist looked at the defense bench with a self-deprecating smile. "You've testified in a lot of cases in front of me and I've always known you as either _Sergeant_ or _Lieutenant_ Stone. I can't seem to wrap my head around this _Mister_ stuff so, if it's okay with everybody," he glanced quickly around the almost empty courtroom, "I am going to continue to do that."

Everyone knew it was rhetorical question but it still elicited a few chuckles and nods.

"All right then." With another chuckle, Stanton looked down at the papers again.

Jeannie looked at Steve with wide eyes and a confused but happy half-smile. This could only bode well, she was thinking; a sentiment they all seemed to share. She looked at her father's back but he wasn't moving and she couldn't tell how he was taking this unusual but encouraging turn of events.

Stanton rifled through the pages again. "I have to tell you, _Lieutenant_ Stone," he emphasized with another little chuckle before the smile left his face, "I have never seen a more compelling case for dismissal of charges and the granting of a pardon in my career." He looked up at Mike. "This is a remarkable story of selflessness that I'm sure none of us have seen before. I'm truly astonished, not only that it happened to begin with but that it went on for this long. I realize it's only been three and a half half months and in the course of a lifetime three and a half months can seem like… a hiccup.

"But when an innocent man is incarcerated, for years, months or even hours - it makes no difference because any amount of time is too long. You can never get that time back and that, to me, is the real crime here."

He looked down at the papers again and held a couple of them up. "Even more remarkable is the work ADA O'Brien has put into this. The man that is supposed to keep you locked up it seems has been extraordinarily busy compiling this impressive stack of tributes to your sacrifice in this matter." He met Mike's eyes. "There are letters here from the Mayor, City Supervisors, the District Attorney, the Chief of Police, the Chief of Detectives, the City Attorney, the Public Defender…

"Hell, there's even a letter here from Warden Kennedy at CCI, lauding you saving the life of a guard and another prisoner and almost getting yourself killed in the process."

In the gallery, Jeannie froze in shock and her wide-eyed face snapped in Steve's direction. He had felt his heart constrict when Stanton had first mentioned Warden Kennedy and his own eyes were riveted on the back of his former partner's head. He saw the very subtle sagging of Mike's shoulders and knew they were now both experiencing the same inevitable dread.

Jeannie knew.

He resisted glancing at Dan, who was on her other side, but he had a feeling the young inspector was feeling exactly the same. A trap door had opened beneath their feet and all three of them were falling through. Well, Steve thought with an internal sigh, at least we're all falling together.

Not wanting to move, to indicate in any way that he was aware of her angry, searing glare at the side of his head, he felt her lean slightly towards him and heard her clipped and angry whisper into his ear. "What did he mean about Mike almost getting himself killed?"

There was no ignoring her now.


	49. Chapter 49

He didn't move; he didn't even breathe. He could feel her eyes on him and he tried not to react.

"I know you heard me," her voice hissed in his ear and peripherally she saw Judge Stanton glanced quickly in their direction, scowling.

Without looking, he put his hand on her forearm and gently squeezed. "Later," he whispered and after another couple of seconds of heat searing the left side of his head, she sat back and stared once more at her father's back.

With an internal sigh, he relaxed slightly. He was trying to concentrate on what the judge was saying but he was also trying to figure out how he was going to extricate himself from what he knew was going to be a very touchy confrontation. At least he didn't have to warn Mike; all three of them were well aware the jig was up.

Judge Stanton was getting to the end of his comments, most of which had gone unheard. Mike, Steve and Dan had zoned out to varying degrees after the mention, vague as it was, of the incident at CCI. Mike had resisted the almost reflexive urge to turn and look at his daughter, hoping she hadn't caught the reference, but when he heard her voice, low and garbled as it was, he knew.

Everything had become almost a miasma after that as he struggled to listen to the judge's words. His mind was racing back through the years, trying to remember all the other times he had chosen not to tell her about things that had happened on the job, things that would have only made her worry more. It had started when she was a child, trying to spare her; when she became an adult and headed out into the world on her own, he continued to spare her when he could.

"Lieutenant Stone," Judge Stanton said loudly and Mike's eyes snapped to the bench with an almost apologetic half-smile; he had let his attention wander. If the jurist had seen the lapse, he chose not to mention it and continued on. "On the recommendation of the District Attorney of San Francisco, it is the decision of this court that the pardon be granted and that you be released from custody forthwith."

Mike sighed loudly and turned to Jack Fowler. With a smile that was matched by the PBA lawyer, Mike shook his hand vigorously. "Thank you, Jack."

Fowler grinned. "You're more than welcome, Mike. I didn't really do much, and you really shouldn't've been in here in the first place but…"

"I know, I know," Mike replied with a soft chuckle, "I think I'm gonna be explaining that to people for long time."

Mike turned and glanced at the three behind him but before he could make a move towards the gate, Gerry O'Brien crossed the short distance between the two tables. Fowler, who was putting the papers in his briefcase, stepped aside to give the ADA access to his client.

The two men faced each other silently for a long beat, then O'Brien put out his right hand. With a warm smile, Mike grabbed the attorney's hand in both his and squeezed. "Thank you, Gerry," he said simply.

"You really don't have to thank me, Mike. I knew from the beginning that you didn't do it but, like the others, there was no way I could prove it and, you know, to be perfectly honest, you really didn't help your cause any, you're aware of that, right?" There was an affectionate lightness in his tone and a twinkle in his eye.

Mike chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, I was my own worst enemy there for awhile… but I don't regret what I did." His smile had disappeared. "But I'm also glad it's over," he added when he read the confusion on the other man's face. "And I have you – and a lot of other people – to thank for that."

"Well, you don't have to thank me again. I just want you back to work. You know, I never have to worry about any case that you bring me; it's always solid. You're good for my conviction rate so, in many ways, my helping to get you reinstated has been for a purely personal reason." He started to laugh.

"Yeah, sure," Mike pretended to agree with an ironic grin.

The bailiff approached. "Um, excuse me, gentlemen, but if you could, ah…" He gestured towards the courtroom door and shrugged slightly in apology. "Judge Stanton's calendar is pretty full today…"

Both Mike and O'Brien had looked towards the door and now looked back at the bailiff then towards the bench. Stanton was staring at them with raised eyebrows and he mimed glancing at his watch.

Mike grinned and pretended to salute with two fingers then turned back to O'Brien. The attorney raised his eyebrows and smiled. "We better get out of here – and you need to go home, once and for all."

Mike's face sobered and, as both men turned towards the small gate in the bar, he slipped his arm around the ADA's shoulders. Steve, Jeannie and Dan had stood and were waiting for them on the other side of the short wooden barrier. Steve slapped O'Brien on the arm as the lawyer walked past him and they shared a quick acknowledgement, then he turned towards his former partner.

Mike stopped in front of his daughter and their eyes met silently for a second before he wrapped her in his arms. Leaning forward slightly, with his mouth near her ear, he whispered, "We have to get out of here." He pulled back as he chuckled and she grinned at him, a happy sparkle in her eyes. She slipped her arm through his and they turned towards the door. Mike glanced quickly at Steve and Dan, smiling warmly, then let his daughter lead them out into the corridor.

Steve fell into step on Mike's other side, dropping a hand onto the older man's shoulder and squeezing. "How does it feel to be a free man again?" he asked as they started slowly down the corridor towards the main central staircase.

With a snort, Mike glanced at him. "It hasn't sunk in yet."

They were about halfway to the staircase when Jeannie stopped suddenly and spun her father to face her. There was a fire in her eyes, and all three of them knew what was coming next. "All right, Mike, what did Judge Stanton mean when he said you almost got yourself killed in CCI?"

While he was prepared for the question, he hadn't anticipated it would come so soon. He was kind of hoping she would have at least waited until they were home.

He stared into her eyes and she stared back, unflinching. Steve and Dan were on either side of them, watching the standoff like a tennis match. Mike sighed and glanced down the corridor; he did not want to cause a scene. He was still wearing the inmate's garb and it made him uncomfortable. "Jeannie – " he began lowly and calmly but she cut him off.

"Don't 'Jeannie' me. Answer my question."

He glanced around again, starting to get a little agitated. "Can we talk about this at home?"

"Just answer the question, Mike? Did something happen to you in prison?"

He cleared his throat quickly, and she knew she had him. "I'll tell you all about it when we get home, all right?" He put a hand on her elbow to turn her to continue down the corridor but she didn't move.

"Were you hurt?"

He stopped and looked at her again. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Mike…"

He sighed again and rolled his eyes. "Slightly."

She sagged almost imperceptibly and her eyes narrowed. "Mike…" The anger was gone and concern now coloured her whisper of his name.

"I want to go home, okay?" He stared at her with raised eyebrows and a warm smile and, after a few seconds of troubled scowling, she grinned lovingly, took his arm and started down the corridor again.

"I want you to promise me you'll tell me everything when we get home." She looked from her father to Steve and Dan, who were following them with relieved smiles. "All of you, you hear me." Their smiles wavered.

Mike glanced at the two young men slightly behind and on either side of him. He knew them both so well, and he could tell by the looks in their eyes exactly what they were thinking. He looked back at his daughter and smiled. "We will, sweetheart, I promise."

She took his arm in both of hers and leaned into him slightly. Nobody could mistake the love and relief in her eyes for anything but what it was: she had her dad back and nobody was going to take him away from her again.

# # # # #

Mike was sitting in his recliner. He had changed out of the prison grays into his familiar checked flannel shirt and beige Dockers, and the black sneakers had been replaced with slippers.

Steve came out of the kitchen with three open cans of beer; Jeannie was close behind with a large bowl of chips in one hand, a glass of white wine in the other. "Here we go," Steve said as he handed one can to Mike and the other to Dan, then dropped beside the inspector on the couch.

"Thank you," Mike chuckled as he took the cold can. "I've been waiting a long time for this…"

"I bet." Dan laughed.

Jeannie put the bowl on the coffee table then stood close to her father. "Welcome home, Daddy," she smiled at him warmly as she raised her glass towards him.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he grinned back as he sat forward slightly and clinked his can against her glass. Then he turned to the others and did the same.

"Here here," Steve echoed with a warm smile and Dan laughed.

Mike inhaled deeply. "That smells wonderful."

"I don't have to tell you what it is," Jeannie grinned, "but I hope you're not too hungry. It won't be ready for a couple of hours."

"For your pot roast, I can wait all day, honey." He took the first gulp of his beer. He closed his eyes as he swallowed it then shook his head in pleasure. "Oh that is good." He looked up at his daughter, who had taken a sip of her wine and was now standing perfectly still, staring at him. "What?"

"So, what happened?"

He stared at her for a couple of silent seconds. "What happened when?"

"Don't play dumb, Mike, you know what I mean. You said you'd tell me." She looked at the others. "You all did – you promised."

Steve tilted his head. "Well, I wasn't there so I…" He let his voice peter out.

"But you knew about it?" Her tone was accusatory.

He swallowed nervously as he met her eyes. "Well, I, ah… ah, yeah, ah, the Deputy Warden called me –"

"He called _you?_ Why you and not me?" Jeannie glanced at her father; her anger was beginning to build again.

Steve looked at Mike in desperation but got no help there. Mike was going to have enough trouble explaining the attack.

"Well?"

The green eyes that came back to hers were now hooded with guilt. "I, ah, I…" He cleared his throat nervously. "I had Jack Fowler put a note in Mike's file that if anything were to happen, I would be notified before you… you know… just in case…"

She stared at him and all three men could see the fury in her entire body. Dan almost expected the wineglass in her hand to shatter.

"Jeannie, he just didn't want to –"

"I know what he wanted," she spat out quickly, her eyes snapping to Dan and back then she stopped herself and an uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. They watched as she stared at Steve, then she began to calm down and her features softened. "I know what he wanted…" she repeated quietly, her tone more understanding. She turned to her father. "What happened?"

Mike sat forward and put the can of beer down. "One of the inmates was picking on another one, a newcomer who… was out of his element. He wasn't adapting to prison life very well."

"What was he in for?"

"Vehicular manslaughter. And the bully knew he found a soft belly and he went right for it. He, ah… he tortured him… mentally. And the new guy, well… one day he just snapped. He'd stolen an awl – it's like an ice pick – from an outside worker in the laundry… and he attacked the bully when they were in line in the mess hall…"

"What did you do?"

Mike looked down and inhaled deeply. "Nothing at first. Until he attacked the guard that came to subdue him… I, ah, I pulled him off the guard…"

"Was anyone killed?"

Mike looked up and nodded. "The newcomer. Another guard had to hit him over the head with his truncheon to get him to stop. It fractured his skull and, ah, he died a few hours later."

"What about the other prisoner and the guard?"

"They both survived."

"Because of you?"

"Someone else would've stopped him."

Steve, who was sitting near the armchair, reached out and put a hand on Mike's forearm. When the older man looked at him, he squeezed. Watching them, Jeannie took a step closer to the armchair, setting her wineglass on the coffee table.

"You said the guard had to hit him to stop him, but you had pulled him off the first guard. And at the courthouse you said you were slightly hurt." Her voice was low and laced with worry. "Mike, did he stab you?"

Her father stared at her and she saw him swallow heavily before he nodded. She caught her breath.

"It was only once and it wasn't serious."

"Where?" she asked apprehensively.

He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, then his right hand went to the left side of his chest, just below his ribs. "Here."

She blinked several times. "Show me," she said softly.

"Jeannie…"

"Show me," she demanded a little louder.

Mike glanced at Steve, then leaned back in the chair and pulled his shirt and undershirt free from his pants. There was a tiny circular scar just under his ribs. "There."

She leaned forward, almost squinting. "That's it?"

Mike tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. "That's it." He didn't want her to see the larger scar between his ribs from the chest tube.

"How long were you in the hospital?"

"A couple of days." He tucked his shirt and undershirt back into his pants as best he could without standing, relieved that she was settling down and believing him.

She turned to Steve. "So you knew about this; did you go down to see him?"

He nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, just for a few hours. He was okay so I came home."

"And didn't tell me."

"Jeannie, we didn't want you to –"

"To worry, I know." She turned to Dan. "Did you know about this too?"

Surprised at being suddenly singled out, Dan sat back slightly. "Um, only after the fact…"

Exhaling loudly, she took a step back and faced the three of them. "What am I going to do with all of you?"


	50. Chapter 50

He hung the checked shirt and the Dockers in the closet and shut the door; the prison grays were in the laundry basket in the basement. He had decided to keep them; he would store them at the back of the top shelf in the closet, a reminder of this tumultuous time in his life.

Wearing a deep blue velour dressing gown over the freshly laundered maroon pajamas, he pulled the sheet and spread down and crawled into the bed. He leaned back against the stacked pillows, looking slowly around the room… his room. With an almost bemused smile he turned slowly to the table lamp beside him. He snapped it off, plunging the room into darkness. With a low chuckle, he snapped it on again.

He reached for the hardback book lying open on the bedside table; Steve had bought him Herman Wouk's "War and Remembrance" over six months ago, and he had been almost a third of the way through it when the interruption occurred. He picked it up and smiled ironically; he couldn't remember anything about the book and knew he would have to start at the beginning again.

The bookmark was lying on the table and he picked it up, flipping back to the first page. He picked up the leather case and slipped his reading glasses out, putting them on. He was just about to start to reacquaint himself with the bestseller when there was a soft knock on the door.

"Come in." He put the book down and looked towards the door as it opened; Jeannie, in her nightgown, robe and slippers, leaned against the frame and smiled at him. He smiled warmly back.

"Am I disturbing you?"

He chuckled and closed the book, not even bothering with the marker. "Of course not."

She crossed to the bed and put her hand lightly on his cheek. "I'm glad you're home," she whispered.

He blinked quickly a couple of times as he took off the glasses and laid them on top of the book on the table. He tossed the covers off his legs and patted the bed beside him. Grinning, she sat on the bed and, as he pulled the blankets back up, she leaned into him. He put his arm around her and pulled her close and she laid her head against his shoulder. "I'm glad I'm home too."

She sighed heavily. They sat quietly for almost a minute, luxuriating in each other's company, then she said softly, "Mike, I know why you did it… I mean, I know why you said you did it… but was it really just because of Mr. Mercer… I mean, was there more to it than just that…?"

"You mean did I have another motive? Something more personal… like Cord threatened you or me… or someone else?"

He felt her shrug. "I guess…" she offered tentatively.

He shook his head. "I wish there _was_ more to it, sweetheart, but that was it. I didn't have much time to react… I just knew I had to get Gordon Mercer out of there, and I had to do it fast."

"But… Mike… why did you think you owed him so much? Why did you think you owed him your… your life, essentially?"

He took a deep breath and laid his cheek against the top of her head. He didn't want to say to her she was too young to understand; condescension wasn't something she needed right now. "Jeannie, honey, there are some things that are more easily understood the older you get –"

"Oh, please, Mike, don't use that excuse –"

"It's not an excuse, sweetheart, it's what I felt… and it's what I believed at the time… and it's what I still believe now. There are times in our lives when you have to step back and look at the bigger picture – and sometimes that picture doesn't have you in it. And when I saw Leonard Cord lying on that warehouse floor, and I knew that Gordon Mercer had killed him, all I could see was me, if the circumstances had been different."

He took another deep breath and pulled her closer. "What if, all those years ago, Cord had decided not to kill Valerie Mercer on that bus, but you instead… what would I have done, what would have become of me… without you...?" He felt her stiffen. "I can tell you what I think would've happened. I would've tracked him down and killed him myself and I wouldn't've given a damn what happened to me."

He raised his head, kissed her hair then laid his cheek against her head once again. "So you see, that was going through my mind when I saw Valerie's father at the warehouse… There but for the grace…" He closed his eyes and let the silence lengthen. "And I'd do it again, honey… I'd do it again…"

She wrapped both arms around him and pulled him tighter, and he could feel her hot tears soaking into the flannel of his pajama top. After several very long seconds, she let go of him slightly and said with a light warmth, "You're a remarkable man, Mike Stone, and I am so proud that you're my daddy."

He chuckled self-consciously and kissed the top of her head again, too overwhelmed to say anything.

"So," she said after what she hoped was long enough for him to get a grip on his emotions, "what are you going to do about getting back to work? Do you think they're going to allow you to just go back?"

He cleared his throat. "Humh, well, that's the 64 thousand dollar question, isn't it?"

"Do you want to go back?"

"Of course I do. I mean, I'm still relatively young, you know –"

"Relatively," she interjected with a chuckle. He squeezed her quickly and firmly, and she jumped and laughed. "Hey…!"

"Don't get cheeky with me, you little monkey; you're beginning to sound like Steve."

She smiled warmly at the name and nestled her head against him again. "Do you have any idea how much work he and the others put in to get you out?"

Mike laid his head back against the pillow and inhaled deeply. "Yes, I do," he said quietly, his throat suddenly tightening. "I'll never be able to repay them –"

"They don't want you to repay them, Mike… they just want you to go back to work. They just want things back to normal... Like I do…."

"Me too," he whispered, sounding far away, and she lay against him silently, feeling him breathe, listening to his heart beating under her touch.

"So, what about going back to work?"

"Well, Gerry said the brass want to see me sometime next week. When he was getting all those… letters together… he told me the Chief wants me to take some time off, a few days, then he wants to meet with me. I'm sure I'll be disciplined somehow then… who knows? But at this point, I'll accept whatever happens… I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"Do you think they'll strip you of your rank? And what about your pension? Will you still get that?"

He shook his head slightly. "I have no idea, sweetheart. They could very well bust me down to sergeant, or even back to patrol if they wanted to. I don't have a leg to stand on, even if the union backs me a hundred percent. What I did… well, they don't even have to take me back if they don't want to so…"

"But what you did wasn't really illegal, was it?"

"Well, no… but…"

"But what…?"

He sighed, trying to find the right words then gave up; there were none. "Pleading guilty to a crime you didn't commit is not a crime, but there's a little more to it than that… I did some things that are… well, let's just say I could be charged for them, if that's what they want to do."

"Like what?" Suddenly there was an anxious and worried edge to her tone that broke his heart. He didn't want to punish her anymore than he already had.

"Well, for starters," he began lightly, trying to take the weighty edge off, "I covered up a murder… I committed what they call 'accessory after the fact' by concealing the identity of the real murderer and allowing him to… escape. That's a very serious charge, Jeannie. And, ah, and I did something else just as bad."

He felt her hands tighten on his pajama top and knew she was getting more than just a little worried. "What?" she asked breathlessly.

"I tossed Gordon Mercer's gun into the Bay."

"But he didn't kill Cord with the gun… so why is that a problem?"

"Yes, he didn't kill Cord with the gun but he did use it to kidnap him and get him to the pier. It was an important piece of evidence and I got rid of it. That's another thing that's not looked upon fondly in law enforcement."

"But they let you out of prison… they can't think those things were all that bad if they just let you out of prison, can they?"

"Well, honey, letting me out of prison is a lot different than letting me back on the force again. They could decide they've already done enough for me, but that what I did, noble as it seemed at the time – well, to me, anyway – is enough and that I should look elsewhere now for gainful employment for the rest of my life."

She hesitated, and he could hear her breathing, knowing she was trying to process this unsettling information after such a wonderfully optimistic day. "So you could lose everything…?"

He pulled her closer again and chuckled softly, trying to allay her fears. "No, sweetheart, not everything. This house is paid for, you know that, so I just have to make sure I have enough to pay the taxes and the upkeep every year… and I still have you… and Steve and Dan…" He kissed her head again and sighed almost happily. "I have everything a man could ask for…"

He didn't want her to get too upset; it was time to take a new tack. "But you know what I want right now?" he asked with a chuckle, pulling away from her and almost forcing her to look at his face.

She managed to find a smile as she sat up and looked at him. "What's that?"

"I want a good night's sleep in my own bed. It's been awhile."

"It sure has," she said as she leaned forward and kissed his lips. She knew what he was trying to do, and this time she was going to let him get away with it. They would have plenty more time to talk about things in the next few days while his future hung in the balance. She started to slide off the bed, facing him as her feet hit the floor. "Hey, just before I knocked on the door, I saw the light go off and then on again. Did you do that deliberately?"

Mike chuckled and glanced away self-consciously. "Yeah – and it wasn't because I forgot how a lamp worked," he joked defensively. "The lights are never completely off in a prison; there's always light. So you get used to sleeping with the lights on. When I turned off the lamp just now, the room went black. I haven't been in complete darkness since the night before Leonard Cord was murdered. And I know it sounds silly, but I'm really looking forward to it tonight."

Her grin was warm. "It doesn't sound silly at all." She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips again. "Get a good night's sleep and I'll make French toast for you in the morning. I bet it's been a long time since you've had that, right?"

He grinned back and rolled his eyes. "Okay, now I know I'm really home. Pot roast and French toast. I'm the luckiest guy in the world."

With a laugh, she crossed to the door, stopping to stare at him before she closed it. "I love you, Daddy." Her eyes were sad but warm and her smile was gone.

"I love you too, sweetheart… more than you can ever know." His voice was little more than a whisper.

She closed her eyes and her face lit up. When she opened her eyes again, they were bright with tears. "I know…" she said softly as she closed the door. "I've always known…"


	51. Chapter 51

"So what time are the guys going to get here again?!" Jeannie raised her voice as she pushed her sleeves up once more with her thumbs and forefingers, trying not to get the flour from her hands onto her shirt.

Mike was coming through the front door with an armful of paper grocery bags. "What?!" He huffed his way into the kitchen and put one bag on the only empty space he could find on the counter. Looking around helplessly, he put the second bag on the floor.

Standing at the small table, Jeannie glanced at him then went back to kneading the dough. "I asked what time the guys were going to get here tonight?"

"Oh," he chuckled as he straightened up and started back towards the door to close it. "Steve'll probably be the last one. He said he hoped to be here around six."

"Perfect," she smiled to herself, looking forward to being in the company of her father's former partner once again. Steve had always been like a doting older brother to her, and she had missed the closeness they shared when his world was so entwined with her dad's.

Mike had taken off his coat and come back into the kitchen, rolling his sleeves up. "So, ah, what can I do?" He crossed to the sink and started to wash his hands.

"Can you peel the potatoes?"

"Hey," he glanced at her with a grin, "how did you know that was my specialty when I was a Marine?"

She frowned quizzically. "I thought in all those old war movies that only guys who got in trouble had to peel the potatoes? You know, KP – Kitchen Patrol…?"

"Oh, yeah?" Mike shrugged innocently as he reached for the towel on the oven handle to dry his hands.

"Yeah. So, what? Were you one of those troublemakers?"

"Who, me?" He opened a lower cupboard and took out the bag of potatoes, putting it on the last free spot on the counter. "Nah, I was a choirboy," he chuckled.

"Yeah, right…" she chortled, glancing at him affectionately.

"How many do you want me to peel?"

She stopped kneading for a second, looking up and counting in her head. "So, there's going to be eight of us… two potatoes each but none for Dan 'cause he's having something else … so fourteen?"

Mike nodded as he cleared off more of the counter and started to take the potatoes out of the bag. Jeannie continued to knead the dough as he dug the peeler out of the cutlery drawer and set to work.

They went about their tasks in silence for several minutes then Jeannie glanced at him. "Mike, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, shoot."

"How many times over the years have you kept something from me?"

Peripherally she saw him freeze slightly, heard a hiccup in the regular rhythm of the peeler. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how many times have you been hurt on the job and not told me?"

She heard him take a deep breath and clear his throat, the rhythm of the peeler this time undisturbed. "Why do you want to know that?"

It was her turn to hesitate. "Because I worry about you… and now I'm going to worry even more if it's true you keep things from me…"

He stopped peeling and turned towards her. She had to continue the kneading so she kept her back to him. "Sweetheart, you know I don't want you to worry about me, ever. I've never been a cowboy, I've never taken chances. And it's not like a TV show, you know, where the star gets shot every couple of weeks for the ratings…"

"I know," she said quietly, "but Steve was almost killed. He survived because he was young and strong, but if it'd been you, Daddy…." She reached up and swiped at her cheeks with the back of her right hand and he knew she was crying.

He stepped behind her and put his arms around her, pulling her against him. "I may not be so young anymore but I'm strong," he chuckled as she leaned into him, and he squeezed her tightly, kissing the top of her head. "I won't let anything happen to me, I promise… Okay…?"

She tilted her head straight back and looked up at him. "If you take that captaincy they keep dangling in front of you, then you'd be behind a desk, wouldn't you?"

He looked down at her, eyebrows raised, then let her go and stepped back to the potatoes. "There are two things wrong with that premise," he said flatly as he picked up the peeler and started to work again. "I'll be lucky if they let me back on the force at my previous rank let alone offer me a captaincy again."

"Oh, right, I forgot…" Jeannie sighed under her breath.

"And," he said forcefully, "what makes you think I'd accept a captaincy anyway? What makes you think I _want_ to be behind a desk?" Though he was trying to keep the tone light, there was a touch of rancor in his voice that he instantly regretted. He stopped peeling and exhaled loudly. "I'm sorry," he said, not turning around, "it's, ah, it's a touchy subject for me. People have been trying to put me behind a desk for a long time… believe me, you're not the first."

Jeannie stopped kneading and put a moist towel over the dough ball. She crossed behind him and slipped her arms around him, leaning against his back and holding him tightly. They stood like that for several long seconds, then she let him go and took a step back, turning him so they were face to face. He looked remorseful; her smile was warm and apologetic.

"I'm the one that's sorry, Daddy, I didn't mean to put you on the spot. I know how much you love being on the streets… and I don't want to take that away from you. It's who you are. You wouldn't be Mike Stone without the streets… and I want that Mike Stone back."

He snorted a laugh and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "You're never gonna lose me, I promise you." His chuckle filled the kitchen. "I think I might be one of the oldest guys on the street already, but I'm not done yet." He pushed her slightly away and stared into her sparkling eyes. "Right?"

She nodded and chuckled. "Right!" He turned her, pushing her back towards the counter and swatting her lightly on the bum. "Now get back to work or the guys'll show up and there won't be anything to eat!"

"Yes, sir!" she pretended to salute as she quickly washed her hands then picked up the bread pan. As she started to dust the pan with flour, she glanced over at her father again, who was hard at work on the potatoes. "I hope they let you back on the streets, Mike. I really do."

He glanced up at her and smiled. "I do too, sweetheart, I do too."

# # # # #

The doorbell rang. Mike pulled the dishtowel he was using as an apron off and tossed it on the kitchen counter as he crossed to the front door. Even before he opened it he could hear Haseejian's booming voice.

"Oh god, that smells good. I don't get home-cooked –" He stopped when the door was yanked open, his hang-dog face breaking into a wide grin. "Mike! Hey!" He opened his arms as he stepped over the threshold, Tanner and Healey behind him.

This was the first time 'Mike's Team' had seen him since it had all started. Their former boss welcomed them all with a brief heartfelt hug, a not unanticipated move from the very tactile older man. All three guests were carrying bottles of wine, which they gallantly presented to Jeannie when she emerged from the kitchen to greet them.

Haseejian stood back and, with a grin, studied Mike from head to foot. "Hey, you look pretty good for a con," he chuckled, glancing at his colleagues with a twinkle in his eye. He knew his old boss well enough to know how far he could go, and it was pretty far.

Holding his arms out and looking down at himself, Mike laughed. "Not bad, hunh? I didn't, ah, _bulk up_ as much as I could've," he joked, miming lifting weights.

Haseejian's grin disappeared and, uncharacteristically, he looked almost overwhelmed. "It's good to see you out, Mike," he said quietly.

The older man looked at him affectionately and cleared his throat. "I, ah, I owe you guys a lot," he whispered, having a hard time finding his voice suddenly.

Healey, glancing quickly back and forth between his former partner and former superior officer, stepped forward and slapped Mike on the arm. "It wasn't just us," he said quickly in an attempt to lighten the mood. They knew it was going to be an emotional night for all of them and he wanted to make sure it didn't get off to a melancholy start. "Let's, ah, let's wait until the entire team gets here before the waterworks start, okay?" he said, meeting everyone's eyes with raised eyebrows.

They all realized he was joking… but just barely. There was a brief uncomfortable laugh then Mike clapped his hands. "Okay," he said with an exhale and a grin, "what can I get you guys to drink?"

# # # # #

Dan and Lessing arrived about twenty minutes later, straight from Homicide. Beers in hand, Mike cornered them in the living room and peppered them with questions about their current open cases. Both younger men were more than eager to bring him up to speed; in the backs of all their minds was the hope that this was a good omen, that Roy Devitt had been right in not removing Mike's name from his office door.

When Steve arrived just before six, the house was alive with laughter and the welcoming aromas of mouth-watering pot roast and vegetarian moussaka. Trying to unwind from a very busy day, the criminology professor parked himself on the far end of the couch and surveyed the living room.

From his familiar place in the leather recliner, Mike had managed to turn the tables and make this night not about his release and return home, but the cases the others were working on or those that had transpired while he was gone, as if his incarceration had just been a longer than normal vacation.

Steve shook his head, smiling in wonder and admiration. As he had so many times in the past, he marveled at Mike's ability to deflect attention from himself and turn it outwards without the other party being aware that it had happened. Even detectives as experienced as the ones in the room were oblivious.

He stared at the older man affectionately. He couldn't imagine life without him. Almost subconsciously, his right hand went to his chest, through the material of his shirt his fingertips touching the thick scar that ran the length of his sternum, over his heart. He knew he was sitting in this room right now because of that man in the armchair, the man who wouldn't let him die.

He felt the stinging tears in his eyes and blinked quickly, dropping his hand back to the arm of the couch. It wouldn't be him to turn this joyous night into a maudlin evening of self-flagellation, he though with an ironic smile. None of them needed that.

He felt someone drop onto the couch beside him and turned his head to look into Jeannie's soft smile and wide eyes. She leaned into him and chuckled. "What has you so… serious?" she asked lightly but with a touch of real concern.

He snorted a laugh, smiling and shaking his head. It was hard to fool a Stone, he thought. "It was a long day, I'm beat."

"Liar," she said with a short laugh then elbowed him. "Come on, I need a hand in the kitchen and you look like you could use a job."

"Yes, ma'am," he chuckled as he followed her up and into the kitchen.

"Need a hand?" Lessing called after them as they disappeared through the entrance.

"Nope, we're good," Steve called back. "So, what do you need?"

As she opened the oven door, Jeannie glanced back at him. "I know you're pretty good at carving so the roast is yours," she said, gesturing with her head at the large slab of meat standing on the wooden carving board on the kitchen table. "It's ready to go."

Happy to be put to work, Steve picked up the carving knife and sharpener. A sudden loud burst of laughter could be heard from the living room and they both looked in that direction then at each other and grinned.

"Thank you for getting him home," Jeannie said softly, her eyes warm and grateful.

Steve smiled back. "If you think we did it for you, you're crazy," he chuckled. "I'm a lot more selfish than that – I did it for me." His laughter filled the room.

With a wicked grin, she took a step towards him, grabbing Mike's discarded dishtowel from the counter and snapping it at him. As he dodged the blow, her laugh blended with his and the kitchen came alive with their joy, their relief and their love.


	52. Chapter 52

**Thanks for coming along for the ride! I hope you enjoyed reading**

 **it as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

Steve crossed the noisy, crowded room towards the table at the window to which he had been directed. He sat in the chair opposite it's sole occupant, whose nose was buried in the menu. Dan looked up and smiled. "Hey."

"Hi," Steve nodded as he sat, glancing at his watch. "He's not here yet? It's not like him to be late."

"Yeah," Dan chuckled, closing the menu and putting it down. "I was thinking the same thing."

"You could've knocked me over with a feather when he called this afternoon and said he'd made a reservation here for tonight, and it was on him." Steve's laugh was as affectionate as it was surprised. "I mean seriously, The Cliff House? I take a date here when I want to impress, not ex-partners!"

"Yeah, I'm trying to figure out what he's going to tell us – that the brass said he could come back… or that he couldn't and he wants to break it to us gently." They both nodded grimly.

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that too." Steve picked up the menu. "I guess whatever he tells us will determine what I'm gonna order," he said quietly with a frown. "I mean, if he tells us he won't be going back to the department, I'll take it easy on him; but if he tells us he's back on the streets again… this is gonna cost him!" He chuckled evilly and Dan joined in. His eyes scanned the menu.

A waiter approached and Steve ordered a glass of white wine, Dan a club soda with lime. When he left, the professor looked out the large glass window and watched the waves breaking on the rocks for several seconds before he chuckled. "Oh, I have an idea of why he chose this place."

"Oh, why's that?" Dan asked, reaching for his water glass.

"Well, Mike's favorite restaurant is Mama's but they don't do dinner; and he always takes his dates, few and far between as they are, to L'Etoile, but that place, like the Tadich Grill, is a little shy on vegetarian dishes, so I think that's why we're here."

Dan was staring at him with an impressed frown. "You can't take the detective out of the professor, can you…?" he chuckled.

A large presence was suddenly looming over them and Mike slipped into the chair beside Dan. "Sorry, fellas, ran a little late." He patted Dan on the shoulder as he settled in. He was wearing a sports jacket and tie instead of his usual suit and fedora, a look that both younger men found hard to get used to. He picked up the menu. "Have you ordered yet?"

Steve glanced at Dan and smiled. "Ah, no, just drinks…" He chuckled. "Are you on the clock or something? Why are you in such a hurry?"

Mike, who was fishing his reading glasses out of his inside jacket pocket, looked up at Steve with a frown, paused, looked at Dan and then laughed quietly. "Oh, ah, sorry, I was late and…"

"And now you're here and everything's fine," Dan said with an affectionate chuckle, patting his partner's forearm, "so let's just take our time and enjoy ourselves. How does that sound?"

Mike looked from Dan to Steve then nodded with a closed-mouth grin. "You're absolutely right, Daniel." He put the menu down and looked around the crowded room. "Good thing I made a reservation though, hunh? This place is packed." He put the reading glasses on the table as the waiter approached with the wine and club soda.

As he put them on the table, he glanced up at Mike. "Good evening, sir, would you like to order a drink?"

"Yes, please." He pointed at Steve's glass and raised his eyebrows.

"Napa Valley Chardonnay," Steve confirmed and Mike nodded.

"I'll have one of those."

"Excellent choice, sir." The waiter disappeared.

Mike looked at both younger men and sighed almost nervously, then turned his head to look out the window. Steve glanced at Dan and they both frowned slightly in curiosity. They both knew the older man well enough to know he was dying to tell them something. Steve cleared his throat. "So, ah, to what do we owe the honor…?" he began tentatively.

Chuckling self-consciously, Mike looked at him, then down at the table, then at Dan. He inhaled deeply. "Well…" he began softly, then smiled at Steve from under a lowered brow, "well, you both know I've been meeting with the Chief and the PBA brass and all kinds of people for the past few days." Both younger men nodded. "And to say they raked me over the coals is probably an understatement. I'm glad Jeannie's back up in Seattle 'cause I would've been lousy company the last couple of days." He paused and looked down. "It, ah… it hasn't been easy, let me tell ya. But, ah, the Chief called me in this morning and they gave me their decision. It hasn't been easy for anyone, you know – they've never had to deal with something like this before."

He was staring at Steve, then he glanced at Dan and looked down, laying both hands flat on the table and sighing deeply. Frowning, Steve looked at Dan and the two of them stared at the older man in concern.

Dan was just about to press his erstwhile partner for an answer when the waiter appeared and set the glass of Chardonnay in front of Mike, who looked up and nodded his thanks.

"So what did they say?" Dan asked carefully, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

Inhaling deeply again, Mike slowly raised his head but didn't make eye contact with either of them. "Well, there were a lot of things I had to agree to – like no compensation for the past four months, loss of pension for the same amount of time, a rank freeze for five years, the loss of vacation days for this year and the loss of all my accumulated vacation days… and I have to pass a physical and requalify… but if I can do that in the next three weeks, I can go back to work…" he turned to Dan, "in Homicide. And I get to keep my name on the door."

Dan, whose eyebrows had kept rising the more he heard, broke into a wide grin and he reached out to quickly pull his partner towards him in a brief hug. Steve sat back and beamed, for the moment relieved beyond words. Mike grinned at them both, chuckling softly then he exhaled loudly and the smile disappeared. "I don't begin to know how to thank you two for everything you've done for me –"

Steve leaned forward quickly. "Don't, Michael," he said sharply, pointing at his former partner, his face suddenly serious, and everybody froze for a split second.

Mike held up both hands and dropped his head. "Okay, okay," he said quietly, "this isn't the time or the place, I know that. But… I did want to… you know… anyway, that's why I wanted you guys here with me tonight…" He felt Dan's hand on his forearm again and the gentle squeeze and he looked up into Steve's bemused eyes. He smiled wryly. "Anyway, like I said on the phone, tonight's on me."

"You bet it is," Steve chuckled wickedly as he picked up the menu again and flipped it open with panache. Mike laughed and shook his head.

"Did you call Jeannie?" Dan asked.

Chuckling, Mike put a finger in one ear and shook his hand, nodding. "I think she blew out an eardrum." They all laughed as Dan and Mike picked up their menus.

After several seconds of silent perusal, Dan glanced at his partner from the corner of his eye and asked casually, "So, ah, you think you can ace that physical?"

Putting on his reading glasses, Mike glanced at him sideways. "What? You don't think I can do it?"

"No no no, I didn't mean that. I know we have to do it once a year… I was just thinking about, you know, what happened to you in CCI…"

"Oh that? No, no worries about that. It healed perfectly. I went to see my own doctor last week, just to ask him about it, and he said I was fine." He chuckled. "To be honest, I'm more worried about requalifying. It's been awhile since I've been to the range, let alone had a gun in my hand. Thank god they gave me three weeks."

"I have some time tomorrow, you want me to go to the range with you?"

Mike looked at him affectionately and grinned. "I'm a big boy, Daniel, I think I can do this on my own."

"You sure?" Steve asked from the other side of the table, a twinkle in his eye. "It's been years since I've handled a revolver but I could give you some pointers…"

"Ha ha ha," Mike intoned dryly, glaring at him balefully while both younger men chuckled silently. "Keep it up, Smiley, and you'll be paying for your own dinner tonight."

"Yikes," Steve laughed, dropping his eyes to the menu, but not before winking at Dan first. "Let's see… what's the most expensive thing on here…."

# # # # #

Mike got up and turned off the TV. "The Warriors just haven't been the same since Rick Barry left."

"Yeah, it's gonna take them awhile to get their mojo back," Steve chuckled. He was sprawled on the couch.

"You want another beer?"

"Why not? Tomorrow's Saturday… and I can always sleep right here…" He patted the couch with a laugh. "God knows it wouldn't be the first time."

"That's for sure," Mike's voice came from the kitchen then he reappeared with two beer cans, handing one over before dropping down onto the recliner. "I gotta think about renewing my 49ers tickets, but they better start playing better or I'm gonna give up on them. You wanna join me again this year?"

"You're gonna give up on them? Yeah, sure you will… Hell, yeah, I'll pony-up for tickets again this year, why not? I'm a masochist too, I guess." They laughed, then Steve took a sip of beer and they both allowed a companionable silence to settle over the room.

Steve ran his finger around the top of the can then asked quietly, "Mike, can I ask you a question?"

A little taken aback by the serious tone the younger man had suddenly adopted, Mike shrugged, "Sure. Shoot?"

He didn't look up. "Why _didn't_ you kill Cord that night at the Palace?"

Mike stared at the top of the younger man's head and waited a couple of seconds before answering. "You mean why didn't I put an end to this nightmare once and for all?"

Still not meeting the older man's eyes, Steve nodded.

After a few more seconds of silence, Mike snorted a laugh and Steve's head came up. Mike's eyebrows were raised and he looked almost embarrassed. "I guess I never told you, did I?"

Steve frowned, inclining his head slightly. "Told me what?"

Mike looked up slightly, as if thinking. "What's that Dirty Harry quote…? Something about 'Did he fire six shots or only five?' or something like that…"

Cocking his head, Steve's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What?"

Mike's smile was mirthless. "I was lucky Cord wasn't counting _my_ shots. By the time I put him down with that bullet in his leg, my gun was empty."

"Are you serious?"

The older man's nod was slow and humorless. "I put two in the lamps on the walls of the Palace, and one in the light in the phone booth."

"And that's why I was covered in glass," Steve interjected with a nod, "I knew about that one."

"That's right, then I put one in the gas tank of his car, one into the air to warn him… and the last one in his leg." Mike raised his eyebrows quickly and smiled grimly. "And _that_ is six. Like I said, I was lucky he wasn't counting. I was, and I knew I had to make him believe I was still… armed."

"Humh," Steve snorted, looking down and shaking his head. "I guess we were all lucky he wasn't counting." He looked up again and met the older man's eyes. "So, ah, if your revolver wasn't empty… do you think you would've killed him? I mean, you know, there was no doubt it would've been self-defense, right?"

Mike looked at him, the smile disappearing, then his gaze unfocused. "You know, I've thought about that a lot over the years… even more these last few months… And you know, I really don't know. I'd like to think I wouldn't've… but I honestly don't know…"

They stared at each other for several long beats then Steve smiled slowly. "Well, for what it's worth, I don't think you would've… it's just not who you are…" Mike stared at him. "But the man who went to prison for a guilty man… _that's_ who you are…"

Mike's eyes slowly filled with tears as he smiled at his former partner, and he dropped his head, shaking it as he chuckled. He ran his hands over his face when he eventually looked up again. "Okay, please, let's change the subject. I don't really feel like getting psycho-analyzed tonight, if you don't mind."

Steve laughed and reached out to slap the older man on the knee. Mike sat back and picked up the TV Guide sitting on the endtable beside his chair. Steve reached for his beer can and took another sip.

Suddenly Mike got to his feet, the small magazine in hand, and crossed to the TV set. "Hey, guess what's on after the news tonight? _The Maltese Falcon_. I haven't seen that in years. You wanna stay and watch it with me? You can sleep on the couch and I'll make French toast in the morning." He bobbed his eyebrows and grinned.

Amused by the sudden, but not atypical, enthusiasm, and pleased to be able to spend time with his old friend again, Steve sat back, kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch. "That sounds perfect."


End file.
